I Came, I Saw, I Died

What It’s Like To Appear On Kill Tony And For It Not To Go Well…

I’ve always believed that if you want to achieve something, anything, then you have to take a risk. Pursuing your dreams and ambitions is messy, scary and unpredictable - but it’s also the point of being alive. I never wanted to sit on the sidelines, quiet and frustrated. I was going to take part, and throw myself in; I wanted the highs and the lows and the stories to tell at the end of it.

Since Kill Tony aired over ten years ago, I’ve often pictured myself appearing on this most venerated show. Sometimes these imaginary appearances went well, other times not. But I never thought I’d actually end up on that stage, microphone in hand. Until I did.

For those of you less plugged-in to the internet and the Rogansphere in particular, let me explain what Kill Tony is. It’s quite simply the biggest live podcast in the world. It has millions of subscribers, and gets more views than all the late-night American talk shows combined. And if that wasn’t enough, the episode I ended up appearing on was recorded and put out on Netflix.

So Kill Tony is obviously a huge opportunity for any stand-up comedian. The only catch is that the format of the show is absolutely brutal, and not at all weighted in the comedian’s favour.

Each comedian selected performs not only for the live audience (as well as the millions watching remotely), but also for a panel comprising some of the best in the business - the show’s creator Tony Hinchcliffe, and three or four rotating guests. It’s easy to see why comedians from around the world flock to Austin for the chance to secure such a highly-coveted spot. But then there’s the aforementioned catch: you only get one minute on stage.

A one-minute set is a fiendishly difficult task. Good stand-up is about more than just reeling off a few jokes you’ve memorised; you need to present a persona, connect with the crowd, and establish a rhythm. That’s a hefty to-do list in the space of sixty seconds - difficult even for a fast-talking comedian dealing in short, pithy jokes. And I’m a slow-talking, comedic storyteller dealing in longer observational routines. Talk about selling ice in the winter.

Once your minute is over, you remain on stage while Hinchcliffe and his panel critique your performance. Now, imagine you’re at work and your manager calls you in for an appraisal. They ask how it’s going and what you feel you could do better, before sending you on your way with some encouraging words and constructive feedback. That’s essentially how Kill Tony is, except in place of a manager you have a group of sadistic psychopaths. If your set goes badly, you will be roasted without mercy by some of the quickest and most brutal minds in comedy - all in front of an audience who lap it up like punters in a Roman gladiatorial arena.

So that’s what I was getting myself into. It all started like most of my best (and worst) ideas: with a moment of blind impulsivity. To get on Kill Tony you need to head to a pub in Austin called Shakespeare’s and sign up. The names of all entrants are then placed in a bucket and picked out at random by Hinchcliffe on the show. I found myself walking past Shakespeare’s on the way to another gig. I had two shows booked that night, and was getting back in the saddle after a short break from stand-up while I travelled across America doing interviews for my podcast, Triggernometry.

As I passed Shakespeare’s, two words popped into my head. Two words that have always been the precursor to either triumph or disaster in my life: “Fuck it”. Before I even knew what I was doing, my name was in the bucket.

For context, hundreds of performers sign up for each episode, and only about a dozen are selected per show. The chances of me being picked were minimal, and I really didn’t think anything of it. In fact, after putting my name in the bucket, I promptly headed off to the other gigs I had booked.

Later on, it was 9.30 PM and I was about to go on stage for my final gig that evening, when I got a phone call from an unknown number.