How did you get into comedy?
If you want anything badly enough, the best way to get it is to feign absolute indifference while pouring in 110% effort. I was telling outrageous jokes about colonialism in tiny pub rooms five nights a week alongside a rotating lineup of lunatics and sexual deviants, all the while gaslighting myself into believing it was a casual hobby and I could stop any time.
What’s been one of your all-time favourite gigs?
I loved performing on a lesbian cruise, despite the debilitating impostor syndrome (I’m an omnivore). I got a record number of fist-bumps from appreciative butches and met so many incredible older sapphics. One was a black witch from California who communed with my ancestors directly after the show – you don’t get that kind of service on Live at the Apollo.
Can you recall a gig so bad, it’s now funny?
I was headlining at a festival and my right breast fell out of my top about 10 seconds in. I didn’t address it because I thought it would weaken my authority; the audience didn’t address it because they were kind and possibly scared. My tit was swinging in the breeze like Tarzan from the vine! I think through sheer bloody-mindedness we all managed to trigger a Mandela effect where after the half hour ended no one present was sure it had ever actually happened. Until now.
How would you describe your new show, Hot Beef Injection?
A stunning, silly, angry show where we (me, Sophie, and you, the audience) troll masculinity for an hour. I love the men who come to my shows (hot dads, fun nerds, miscellaneous) but the men outside, who roam the streets, have me tired and distressed on the daily. In a world where we’re processing rape academies, frat-house group chats and private islands it feels not only punk but necessary to rugby tackle the toxic elephants in the room.
Was there a particular incident that triggered the show?
Hoo boy. When I was but a tiny baby girl comedian I had a non-consensual experience with an older man in the industry. At the time I sort of walked it off. But our paths crossed again in late 2025, and I thought, in the light of all the hideous bleakness of Everything Happening Right Now, why not sneak the anecdote into a standup set and make it my best-reviewed show to date?
Your debut novel, Dong, is out in the new year. What interested you in fiction writing?
I’ve been writing fiction my entire life – alibis, flirtatious texts, hastily drafted email excuses and backstories for social media catfish. But sandwiching a feature-length story inside a hardback and putting my name to it has always felt like seducing Pedro Pascal – technically possible but unattainable for me, at least at the moment. The carte blanche you get given as an author to fantasise is intoxicating. I was tapping it out at the hair salon while the aunties ravaged my edges, sneaking my laptop into bed at sunrise so I could get a fix before my partner woke up.
Best advice you’ve ever been given?
“If you’re doing well, get off; if you’re doing badly, get off.” This was said to me by a male comedian, but I think it’s still valid. I really hate when any work becomes more about the performer’s vanity than audience enjoyment. It reminds me not to let success make me too self-indulgent, or to scrabble for extra scraps of approval if I feel short changed by the room’s reaction. Do the thing you came to do, to the best of your ability, then dip.
What’s one of the strangest fan encounters you’ve had?
My fans’ love language is bizarre gift giving. A man in York offered me freshly baked bread (I accepted). One man from France offered me his credit card details (I declined). On tour in Australia, a woman gave me a card which contained a lock of her dog’s hair. (I kept it – the card, not the dog.)
What’s a joke you’re convinced is brilliant, but just doesn’t land with audiences?
Wow, logging that as a microaggression. All of my brilliant jokes land with all my audiences – but I do notice that sometimes they are slightly more tepid when I try to sneak in niche references to Lord of the Rings.
What’s next for you?
I want to nail my Ayesha. Not referring to the Baroness Hazarika. Nailing my Ayesha is part of my nonagenarian stripper fantasy. The Ayesha is a pose where you hang upside down, legs splayed, labia facing heaven, just two contact points on the pole. I’m manifesting a level of physical and mental dexterity in my 90s where I can be this fiercely intellectual slutty grandma and every other month I throw big debauched parties where I’m fed psychedelic-laced frozen grapes by my absolutely smitten, smoking hot entourage.
• Sophie Duker: Hot Beef Injection is at Soho theatre, London, 26 October–7 November. Then touring until 9 May
