Are short people funny? Part 1
Lessons from my (very brief) stand-up experience
I hope the stories of ‘sneaky f*ckers’ in the last chapter gave you a chuckle. If nothing else, my height has given me plenty of humorous material to draw on.
In the realm of professional comedy, there are a host of intriguing factors at play around stature. You might think that to generate a formidable stage presence, it is essential to have a formidable physical presence too.
That may be true in some cases - a couple of studies have linked being tall with making it to the top of the comedic tree. But it has been, and still is, infinitely possible for comedians to use their height, and material about it, to their advantage.
The risk though, is that short people become the butt of the joke, even in cases where astounding talent clearly exists.
Sandi Toksvig is someone who uses her height to fabulous comic effect. Having had the privilege of seeing her perform in person, I can categorically confirm she has a presence that extends far beyond her physique. Every facial expression, every opening of the arms, generates a warmth and instant affection towards this small Danish woman who is somehow now your best friend.
One of my earliest memories of full-on belly laughter was watching Sandi outclass her male peers on the original series of improvisation show Whose Line is it Anyway?
The game on this occasion was called the World’s Worst Step, where a category is read out, and contestants walk forward onto the step to give examples of what would be the worst possible thing to be included in that category. (If that sounds familiar, it’s because the format is currently was then ripped off by inferior modern incarnation of Whose Line is it Anyway?, Mock The Week, for its Scenes We’d Like to See skit - a show whose host, 6’4’’ Dara Ó Briain, is also exceptional at size gags.)
The category was World’s Worst Submarine Captain. Sandi marched onto the step: “Don’t worry, we’ll easily get out of this, all we need to do is up the periscope”.
She then imitated jumping up and down in an imagined attempt to reach said periscope. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her on the same show as one of the other regulars, the 6’6’’ Ryan Stiles - hardly a stranger to mocking his own height either - but I’d imagine they’d make quite the pairing.
A more recent example had Sandi discussing jelly baby sweets on the quiz show QI, removing them from the bowl, and then remarking that the grouping looked like a meeting of her family.
I wish I could remember his name, but one of the finest openers to a stand up set I’ve heard comes from a delightful Scottish comic: “I’m 5 foot 5 and a half, but we blokes always round up don’t we, so I’m 6 foot…”.
Charlie Chaplin was only 5’5’’, and wrote the blueprint for physical comedy with his big trousers, tiny jacket combo. Miranda Hart, at the other end of the height spectrum, uses her considerable frame primarily for the purposes of physical comedy. I hope we remember these titans of the scene for their comedic genius, and not just their physical measurements.
I am a little too young to have been around at the time of Chaplin, but another of my formative experiences with humour came from watching Ronnie Corbett’s monologues. These were always my favourite segments on The Two Ronnies. His cosy armchair and warm words absorbed you like a hug. For me, his delivery of the line "I'm so short, I'm the only citizen in the UK with a full length photo in their passport" is so endearingly self-deprecating, that it remains about the closest thing to comedic perfection I have yet experienced.
Having seen the likes of Toksvig and Corbett’s prowess, I was destined to try my hand at some of my own comedy stylings. Alas, while I may share their bodily frames, I clearly do not share any of the other traits that make them such imperious jesters, including the patience needed to get out there and practice night after night.
However, during my brief stint on the stand-up circuit, I did discover very quickly that packing my set with height-based quips would elicit the most mirth; provided I strode the line between joke and self-pity competently. After some ten performances, each with different variations of material on height and other subjects, I felt a palpable sense that the audience didn’t just want me to mention my tininess, they almost expected it, like they were waiting to fully engage until it had been addressed.
In fact, a few lines in this book are adapted from parts of those stand-up routines I performed at open mic nights across London. As an opening line, “small human, not giant microphone” hardly joins the pantheon of greats, but it normally merited a decent chuckle at least. As would walking on stage, pausing for a beat, then responding “5’2’’, thanks for asking”.
Perhaps I just enjoyed being taller than other people for a change, even if it was only by virtue of them being seated, and me being stood on a stage. When the performances went well, the saying is absolutely true - making people laugh made me feel two foot taller. When it didn’t, well, there wasn’t much more room to go downwards, which was probably why I called time on the comedy career in the end.
I’ll delve deeper into my own experiences, and the science, in forthcoming chapters.