Why did you start standup?
It was by accident. My background is in acting and when I was coming up to 31, the work kind of dried up and I moved back in with my parents. Standup was just something to do. I took a free comedy workshop as part of the Darbar festival. I saw the word “free” … which is my favourite price.
I’m a bit of a teacher’s pet so was at the front with my notepad and pen all ready to go. A well-known comedian came out and said: “Right, who’s done standup before?” I said “I’ve never done any standup, my background’s in acting.” And he said, “Actors make shit standups.” That was my introduction to standup.
Who do you remember looking up to when you were first starting out?
I love observational comedy, so Peter Kay and Sarah Millican. Growing up as a Punjabi woman, there weren’t that many Punjabi comedians to look up to, or even south Asian comedians to look up to. So that was my lot really.
You’ve also written a novel, Sunny.
I thought I’d write a book when I was 65 living by the sea. I’d write it on a vintage typewriter, and in between I’d be visited by my much younger lover. Instead, I was offered the book deal in lockdown and wrote it in my childhood bedroom with East 17 posters on the wall. I just want to write books, do comedy and get to a level where I don’t have to live off Tesco meal deals when I’m on the road.
What is your upcoming show, Hot Aunty Summer, about?
Turning 40, not having hit any of the milestones that I thought I would have hit at this point – getting married, having a baby, owning a house, owning a really nice set of towels from John Lewis.
I grew up in a culture where aunties are women who are not related to you but basically friends of your mum or any woman a similar age to your mum. I grew up being massively criticised by these women who were not very positive role models at all.
Even now, young people say, “Oh, she’s such an aunty.” It’s a bit of an insult. And I’m trying to reclaim that word because I am now the age they were. I thought aunties were 150 … but no, they were just in their late 30s. The show is a bit of a manifesto and call to arms about how the aunties of this generation, even if we don’t have kids of our own, can be a really positive driving force for the next generation. I’ve made it sound like a Ted Talk. It’s not. There’ll be funny bits in it.
Do you have any preshow rituals?
If I don’t have a preshow poo, I don’t have a good show. I also like to get to a venue about an hour and a half early and do a full vocal and physical warmup as if I’m doing a play. Whereas other comedians often stroll in five minutes before their showtime with a pint in their hand, I am there doing full-on tongue-twisters and breathing exercises. And then there’ll always come a moment, where for about a minute, I really kick myself for not listening to my mum and getting a job at HSBC when I was 21.
Do you have any bugbears from the world of comedy?
People who think they’re funny; whether that’s other comedians, punters or people on the street. I never tell people I’m a comedian. When I was on the dating apps, I never told men that I did comedy. Never tell a straight man you do comedy, ever. It’s the worst thing you can do. I find it really odd that people will go, “I’m funny. I’ve got a joke. You can use that in your material.” I would never go up to a brick layer and say, “I think you’re using a bit too much mortar there. I really think you could do a better job on that.”
My biggest bugbear is the fact that people think standup is easy. That it’s easy to put a set together or that it’s an easy job to do. Obviously we’re not down a pit or saving lives or anything, but it’s also not as easy as people think.
Best advice you’ve ever been given?
I was recently in a beautiful cast of 12 other people for Quiz, an incredible play that we were touring around the country. When we were really stressed on press night, someone said: “It’s just a fucking play.” Which I love. It feels like such a life or death scenario when you are in the wings but it’s not that deep, babes.
Best heckle?
I once had a drunken heckler, but an elderly Indian woman came to my rescue. She stood up in the stalls, turned around, wagged her finger at him full-on Nana style and yelled, “Hey, stop it. I paid for my ticket,” then sat back down again. I feel like women like her should be hired for every standup gig, because you’re just not going to mess with an Indian grandma who’s wearing a sari with a big old cardigan over it.
What have you learned from standup?
Perfectionism is a curse. I did a film in 2016 called Victoria & Abdul and Eddie Izzard was playing one of Queen Victoria’s sons. I’d only done a handful of standup gigs at the time and Eddie turned around to me and said “Have you died yet? That’s when you’re really going to learn – when you completely fail.” But I guess what Eddie didn’t really appreciate is I’m the only child of working-class immigrant parents, so failure is not an option.
Sukh Ojla: Hot Aunty Summer is at Soho theatre, London, 9-11 May
