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Born in Portsmouth in 1986, comedian Suzi Ruffell trained at the Academy of Live and Recorded Arts in London and began her standup career in 2008. As well as touring and appearing on Live at the Apollo, she hosts a podcast, Out With Suzi Ruffell, and co-hosts another, Like Minded Friends, with Tom Allen. She has also written a bestselling memoir, Am I Having Fun Now? Anxiety, Applause and Life’s Big Questions, Answered. She tours her show The Juggle until September.
This was taken in the living room of the house I grew up in, in Portsmouth. All the curtains were heavily patterned, as were the carpets. I was 10 years old and deep in my Spice Girls era – especially Mel C, who was on the roster of my early crushes, along with Kate Winslet and Jennifer Aniston.
I grew up in a loud, busy home, the kind of house where people were always popping in – my mum would be listening to the Supremes or Diana Ross, polishing the red leather sofa or making tea for whoever was hungry. Dad’s mates would be there, and there was often an uncle and my nan, too.
Back then, I had a desperation to be liked, a needy energy that I couldn’t seem to shake. I would spend my weekends on my bike trying to find an adventure, and as tragic as it sounds, always looking for new friends. My dad was a real character, and watching him, I learned I liked being around funny people. Telling jokes looked like an easy way to navigate a lot of my problems. I had bad anxiety – a real self-esteem deficit – and around this age I was trying to privately work out my sexuality. I realised the currency of humour and thought: “If I can be funny, maybe I’ll be OK.”
I didn’t come out until I was 20, so for the decade before that, I remained frightened people would find out. There was one particular girl at school who was quite mean to me – I guess she could sense I was hiding something, or maybe she was just picking up on my weirdness. I was always showing off. As a dyslexic queer child who had trouble paying attention, I found school very claustrophobic. All of which resulted in obsessive behaviour, often regarding light switches or checking the doors. At school I would try to hold it together, but sometimes I’d think: “As long as I run up and down these stairs five times, people aren’t going to find out I fancy Kate Winslet.” I was terrified my family would die. Essentially, I found the whole experience of living very chaotic and unpredictable. I needed to set rules for myself so I could control something, so I could cope. It was exhausting, but also no one died, so maybe there was something in it.
When I found the youth amateur dramatic society, my life changed. I went every Thursday – it was the one place I could hang out with people who were just like me – outrageous – and a place where I could sing, dance and do musicals. It felt like home, somewhere my brain would calm down, as I didn’t have to worry about what people thought of me. We were so dedicated to our craft: in our minds, we were preparing for a sell-out show at the Palladium when, in fact, we would perform to a modest crowd at the City of Portsmouth boys’ school.
Alongside the stage time and community, drama group was also the place I realised I could be funny. I was playing a posh lady with a silly voice one time, and people laughed. I knew I wasn’t the romantic lead as I was never someone the boys fancied. Instead, the comic relief was a role I could throw myself into.
I first tried standup when I was 24. My friend – then girlfriend – Faye suggested it. I had just graduated from drama school and was struggling to get an agent or a callback from any auditions. I had nothing to lose. I don’t remember any of the gags but I know I was in a basement, the mic was gaffer-taped to the stand and there was one bright light glaring at me. There were about 12 people in the audience and even though none of them laughed, I felt electric.
After that I’d go to Balham in London every Sunday to do a comedy night. The gig always had an anarchic spirit – particularly when the guy who did poetry naked turned up. This was the place where I made friends with Nish Kumar, Lou Sanders, Brett Goldstein and Joel Dommett. We were oddballs together, having a go at something that seemed completely unhinged to everyone else. None of my friends understood why I was going to Aberystwyth on a Thursday night to do five minutes at the Giggling Donkey. But the comedians could.
When I started doing comedy, my aesthetic suddenly became very important. I first started to cut my hair short at university while going through a Pink phase. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted everyone to know I was gay when they looked at me – a definite reaction to all those years where I found my sexuality so scary. Initially, I’d wear patterned leggings and Dr Martens, but I longed to step out in a suit and tie. As soon as I did, it made me feel so much more powerful.
A real moment of change in my career came when I started talking about my anxiety and sexuality on stage, these two vulnerable subjects I had worked so hard to conceal. It was like ripping off a plaster and suddenly I was unashamed. People responded to it well, because deep down, we all feel like outsiders. While I’m not playing the biggest theatres in the country, I have found an audience that relates to me, and I relate to them.
Plus, I’ve even met Mel C. Alan Carr introduced me. I was opening for him, and she came to watch. It was the only time I’ve been starstruck. I couldn’t speak. The only thing I could say was: “You mean a lot to me – you always will.” Then Alan said: “She’s gone weird. I’m going to take her away.”
I became a parent to a little girl in the pandemic. I got married during that period, too. I didn’t absorb the enormity of what I was doing, as the whole world felt trapped in a strange new reality in 2020. Then, when we moved to Brighton when our daughter was two and half, it finally sunk in. I remember being on the beach with them both. We were having an ice-cream. Just the three of us, sitting on the pebbles. I thought: “I’ve got a wife, I’ve got a kid, we live in Brighton! I don’t feel weird or different. I have friends. Life has worked out good.” It was a moment so special that I marked it by getting a tattoo on my arm.
There was a time in my teens when it was considered the worst thing in the world to be keen; now I embrace it. I run towards things. As I’ve got older, I’ve tried to become less embarrassed about who I am, and less concerned about being cool. I have also reached a stage where I think anyone who is cool is probably a wanker.
