It is nearly midnight at a packed theatre in Edinburgh, and Simon Amstell is inviting questions at the end of his Work in Progress show, which continues a mission to cleanse himself of shame and embarrassment by using joyful comic candour. The crowd responds with inquiries about his magic mushroom trips (“I prefer to call them ‘ceremonies’,” he replies primly) and his open relationship with his long-term boyfriend, the economist and philosopher Daniel Chandler. Then an audience member asks if he feels the need to push back against the public’s perception of him. “Why, what’s the perception of me?” he bleats, comically startled. “Sorry!” comes the bashful reply, the interrogator caving instantly, much to Amstell’s amusement.
The next morning, I meet the 43-year-old, east London-born comedian in the theatre bar. He is wearing a chartreuse jumper, and a tiny silver earring in the shape of a footprint; his springy black curls bounce around during his frequent, shrieking fits of laughter. I ask if he knows what his questioner was getting at last night. “I guess I mean different things to different people,” he reflects. “But I can only express whatever is going on for me now. I can’t put on some old skin and do a dance routine for people who liked the other things I did.”
There are those who know him from “speaking to some pop stars in my 20s” – a reference to his spiky, sardonic turns hosting Popworld and Never Mind the Buzzcocks. Others are drawn to him via his ingenious sitcom Grandma’s House or his gay romcom Benjamin, while there is a vegan contingent attracted by his 2017 debut film, Carnage, set in a plant-based utopian future. There is nothing for them in the new show, I point out. “No. But if they are thinking ‘we’d rather you made some jokes about lentils’, hopefully they will let go of that quite quickly and accept that I’m talking about my sex life.”
And how. Even Caligula would come away feeling chaste by comparison. The mystery is how Amstell finds the time to write standup routines with all the action he seems to be getting. “Those guys I talk about are bunched together into one section of the show,” he protests. “Some of them were, like, five years apart.” Unable to help himself, he adds: “But I’d love for your perception to be correct.”
In a roundabout sort of way, discussing sex on stage has translated into having more of it in his life. “The more I talked without fear about who I am, the freer I became, and therefore the freer my life was of the shame instilled in my childhood. Rather than being hunched over and not making eye contact with anyone, I found I was wandering around like the actual sexual animal I was born to be. And that’s when sexy things can happen.” Another delighted shriek.
There is an important tonal difference, however, to his newer material. Amstell’s last show, Spirit Hole, included explicit recollections of visiting a New York sex party, during which he presented himself as a kind of eunuch at the orgy, observing the erotic extravaganza with an arched eyebrow. He also told a story about bringing two strangers back to his hotel room only to get unceremoniously dumped before any disrobing could occur. In his new set, he allows himself to relish carnal pleasure to the full, even rhapsodising about it, with nary a snub or mishap in sight.
“I used to think I couldn’t talk about enjoying sex,” he admits. “I turned myself into this awkward English twit so the audience would come with me on that journey and not feel uncomfortable. What I found out last night, though, is I can talk about enjoying myself and it’s still funny, as well as more authentic to where I am now. I mean, how many times can I discuss going to an orgy and feeling out of place? It’s like: ‘Stop going to orgies then!’” He leans in: “By the way, I’ve only been to three in my life.”
A friend of his who was in the audience for the current show remarked that he seems happier now. “I thought: ‘Oh yeah. That’s a unique selling point.’ It may be that a wound is necessary at the start but I don’t think you need to keep it. You can work through it.” The new material touches on genuine pain, including a childhood experience of being shamed horribly by a teacher for behaviour that was clearly linked to his sexuality. “It’s not funny because I’m sad,” he says. “It’s funny because I’m on stage full of joy and vulnerability while expressing a former sadness. Everything I do is this kind of shame excavation. It’s about blasting through shame to get to a place where you don’t feel there’s something wrong with you.”
• Simon Amstell: Work in Progress is at Pleasance Courtyard, Edinburgh, until 13 August.
