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Born in 1990 in Bridlington, East Yorkshire, Rosie Jones began her career working in television as a researcher on 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown, before moving into live comedy. Her television appearances include Live at the Apollo, The Last Leg, Taskmaster and the Tokyo Paralympics. She has published a series of children’s books, titled The Amazing Edie Eckhart, and hosts the new series of Out of Order on Comedy Central.
This was taken in my childhood home in Bridlington. My family had moved in not long before the photo was taken, hence the very empty living room in the background. I should also acknowledge my incredible outfit: Mr Men trousers, paired with a black velvet hat. It makes me really fond of my mum. She took so much pride in putting me in ridiculous clothes.
I was a smiley, happy child. I’ve had cerebral palsy since birth, so I’ve never known any other reality. At three years old I went to a disabled nursery connected to a disabled school, and I remember thinking, “Why am I here?” At the end of the day, the teacher brought my parents in and said, “Rosie should be in a mainstream school.”
I was five when the Disability Discrimination Act came in. If I’d been born 10 years earlier, I probably would have gone to that disabled school, which would have led to fewer opportunities for me in the long run. Instead, the mainstream school was given a lot of funding by the government. I was one of a few disabled children in my year, so I had a teacher’s aide, one-to one, for my entire primary school experience. I couldn’t hand-write because of my cerebral palsy, but I was given a laptop so I never missed out on any of my education. It breaks my heart to think of the disabled people starting school today. The funding they need to succeed simply isn’t there any more.
Being disabled, I couldn’t walk or talk properly, but I realised that if I made a funny face or said something silly, getting laughter from people was all I needed. I was hooked on being funny. My training started at home: my dad, bless him – a good man, not a funny bone in his body – was out of the game. My mum and my brother, however, were always cracking jokes and doing characters. Not to be arrogant or a dickhead, but it was me setting them up for the punchline. This continued as a teenager at school. I wanted to be surrounded by laughter, but I didn’t necessarily want to be the one in the spotlight because I already had so much unwanted attention. Feeding other people the lines made me feel far more comfortable.
At the start of my career, I was working on 8 Out of 10 Cats, writing jokes for Jimmy Carr. Alongside my full-time job as a TV researcher, I was doing a postgraduate diploma in comedy writing at the National Film and Television School. I was taught by an amazing man, Bill Dare, who sadly isn’t with us any more. In the best possible way, he was a grumpy bugger. I’d hand in my sketches or jokes and he would take one look and go, “No, it’s shit.” It didn’t put me off – I was in my element, surrounded by other comedy writers and going to the pub after class. One night, when I was telling everyone a story as we had a drink, Bill looked at me and said, “You’re a standup. Go and try standup comedy.” I thought, “Well, now I’ve got to do it.”
After that, I became more aware of how internalised ableism had shaped me and my perception of who I could become. I grew stronger in my confidence and realised, “Why the fuck can’t I be the one telling the joke?” I already had a bit of material ready. Without acknowledging it, I had been workshopping jokes down the pub for years. For example, “Oh, I’m not disabled, I’m drunk.” Those lines were ones I’d use as a defence mechanism to show people that I might have a disability, but I was an alert, intelligent and extremely foolish person, too.
During those first five years of gigging, I barely slept. I was working in TV during the day, doing standup five days a week, then I would get home and do my homework for the comedy writing course. It was hard, but worth it. Whenever I meet aspiring standups and they say to me, “I want to be rich and famous. How do I do that?” I always reply, “You literally need to go to Reading on a Wednesday night, perform to four people who fucking hate you, cry on the train home and be £40 out of pocket.” If you can do that and wake up the next day thinking, “We go again” – then that means standup comedy is for you.
Being famous was never something I wanted. Standup is just a hobby that got out of hand. The upside of having an audience is that people listen. We live in a world where disabled people are often left out of the conversation – even conversations about disability. Through my career, I’m able to go on TV or write for newspapers, and people pay attention to what I say. It also matters when someone comes up to me and tells me, “Thank you for the representation.” Growing up, I rarely saw disabled characters in the media, and when I did, they were usually victims or treated as vulnerable. It would have blown my mind to see an independent disabled adult – swearing, talking about sex, drinking, smoking and having flaws – on primetime TV.
The other side of fame is that I attract a lot of negativity. I’m very liberal and vocal in my politics, so with the rise of the right, I get abused online every day. I’ve got to work hard on my mental health and choose not to expose myself to social media. It’s also made me quite anxious when I go out. Sometimes my friends will suggest we go into a pub and I’ll think, “It looks a bit busy, let’s not.” I don’t always feel like I’m in the frame of mind to deal with strangers coming over to me, because I never know what will happen. Sometimes people want to take photos, but a lot of people hug or kiss me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m small, a woman, disabled, or because I have a friendly persona, but there are even times when people try to pick me up. I’m sure it comes with good intentions, but I often have to say, “You know what, can you put me down, please?” In an ideal world, I would like the fame that means I have power that influences representation, without having the online abuse and boundary crossing.
When I look back at this photo, I feel inspired. I’ve got such a love-hate – emphasis on hate – relationship with mobility aids. If they’re offered to me now, I think, “I can walk, so why would I use an aid when that’s a physical embodiment of disability?” That wasn’t how I felt back then. Mobility aids were simply tools that helped me get around. Over the years, they became negative symbols of disability. That internalised ableism is something I’m trying to shed through therapy. When I see how happily I’m using my rollator at the age of three, I realise that 35-year-old Rosie could learn a lot from her younger self.
