Toussaint Douglass. Per Google’s new AI summary feature, “one of British comedy’s most exciting and talked-about names…harnessing his neurodivergence…making serious waves across the industry…”
Think clever humour. Practised, witty quips. Picture an Instagram page that smacks of contrived don’t-carishness. Black t-shirt, with a cryptic (but obviously hilarious) reference on it that everyone pretends they get. Beanie hat.
Then scratch all that.
Douglass’ comedic icon is Rowan Atkinson’s Mr. Bean, which says far more about him than AI can ever hope to grasp.
An hour with the South Londoner leaves you reeling, not from highbrow humour or deftly laid comedic traps, but rather a startling openness and distinctly un-British willingness to bare his emotions. It’s the kind of self-awareness and self-love that, if more widely practised, would put half the world’s psychotherapists out of business. The more jaded among us might suspect it’s some clever new act, but give it a minute and you’ll find yourself disarmed by something far more endearing: genuine sincerity.
“I spend a lot of time in my head and it’s probably one of my favourite places to be,” Douglass says. “When you’re an introvert, you’re a tribe of one. So it’s a really good thing that at this point in time, I like myself more than I’ve ever liked myself. That hasn’t always been the case.”
Douglass has been on the circuit for over half a decade now, honing a brand of comedy that feels both distinctive and instinctive. But according to the man himself, it’s been an evolution.
“When I was starting out, I was so self-conscious about not fitting in. The others were cool dudes in beanies talking about wanking and I’ve never been a dude’s dude. I come from a very matriarchal family. In 2018, I remember wearing a beanie hat on stage, desperate to fit in and ashamed of all the things that made me a bit different. Looking back, it’s the thing I’m most ashamed of: trying to be a beanie hat comedian. These past years have taught me to be comfortable in my own skin and embrace the oddness. It’s all part of the package.”
It’s a charming story, but one piece of the puzzle doesn’t quite fit: how does an introvert decide they want a career on stage?
“It’s the one place I feel okay expressing all the silly thoughts in my head,” Douglass explains simply. “I come from a big family, with big characters. Sunday dinner at my Nan’s, all the aunts would be there, there was wine, it was loud, and I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. My first time on stage, I realised, ‘I can just talk and no one else talks!’. Stand-up really is the perfect form of extroversion for an introvert, if that makes sense.”
Somehow, it does. Particularly when Douglass goes on to reflect on the “ephemeralness of stand-up”: a roomful of strangers from wildly different backgrounds, momentarily connected by a chorus of laughter. Then that fragile human connection vanishes as the night ends, and it’s on to the next night, the next room, and the next crowd.
Surely then, his Fringe debut Accessible Pigeon Material must be a deeply reflective metaphor for his life – or at least the next challenge in his rapidly evolving comedic journey?
Douglass frowns, as though the thought has never occurred to him. “The clue’s in the title,” he finally says. “It really is accessible pigeon material. That’s the aim of the show, to make pigeon material accessible. I don’t want anyone thinking it’s something else, because it is a lot about pigeons. No one’s done it before. No one’s talking about pigeons, and I don’t know why. They’re amazing!”
He reveals that some people (his agent included), believe the show might not be ‘commercially viable’. Nevertheless, he proceeds to make his first point by launching into an enthusiastic list of pigeon facts. They mate for life (“they’re in long term relationships, so they’re just as miserable as we are!”), they walk around like commuters (“why?! They can FLY!”) and some pigeons can even detect cancer (“can you believe it? What have you or I ever done for cancer research?!”).
At long last, a trace of depth emerges from the comic. “Well, the show does have themes of migration and finding a sense of place and belonging. I suppose Accessible Pigeon Material is me trying to make people see the world the way I see it, just for an hour. I think sometimes our sense of wonder at the world around us just chips away.”
A moment of thoughtful silence (but only a moment), before the disclaimer is delivered: “Really, it’s going to be a silly, silly kind of show, because that’s the only thing I can do. I mean, ‘Fringe debut’ is a big phrase. I’m not really the kind of person who has a career roadmap or wants to ‘get out of their comfort zone.’ I’m more like, ‘if a zone’s comfortable, why leave?’”
Douglass’ style might be free of artifice, but it is clear that he puts a lot of thought into the details. When asked what he’s going to be wearing on the Edinburgh stage, the answer comes without hesitation.
“That’s an easy one. Waffle knit cardigan. 100%. It’s very me.”
Toussaint Douglass: Accessible Pigeon Material, Pleasance Courtyard, 30 Jul-24 Aug (not 11), 7.25pm