The rise of DIY comedy platforms

For years, the gatekeepers of British comedy were familiar faces: BBC Radio, TV stations like Channel 4, and most coveted rooms at the Edinburgh Festival. If you wanted a career, you pitched a script, landed a writing gig, or got lucky with an agent. Stand-up comics clawed their way through open mics and club nights, hoping someone in a production office would catch their five-minute set and give them a shot. Getting on TV or radio meant you were officially in. That was the route. There weren't many others.

That's changed. New comics no longer wait for permission. Many don't even bother writing treatments or trying to get noticed at comedy festivals. They post directly to the internet. A handheld mic, a cheap tripod, and a wall with decent lighting. Suddenly, that's enough. YouTube has become the circuit. TikTok is the showcase. Patreon is the tour. Comedy that used to disappear after a gig is now sticky. Clips circulate. Fans follow. The audience is global.

Some comics are skipping entire genres. Instead of panel shows, they're launching podcasts. Instead of trying to write a sitcom, they started a sketch series on Instagram. Even livestreams, once the awkward fallback of lockdown boredom, have turned into polished shows, often shot in bedrooms. It's not just about exposure. It's about control. When you post your own material, no one cuts your jokes. There's no compliance form, broadcast delay, or reminder that "this might not sit well with a BBC One audience".

This shift toward creative control and semi-decentralised entertainment mirrors what's happening in other sectors of digital entertainment. For instance, in the UK iGaming sector, players who want fewer restrictions often skip the local mainstream routes too. Instead, many now search for a list of non Gamstop Casinos. These platforms offer more freedom and a more exciting way to play that has fewer restrictions and limitations, and usually caters to a more private experience.

Comedians do something similar. They leave the safety of structured networks in favour of independence, even if it means less money or exposure at first. Both paths attract people who'd rather call their own shots. There's also the matter of time. Traditional media moves slowly. Development meetings. Commissioning rounds. Script rewrites. Waiting months to hear back from someone who might've left the company.

By contrast, a comedian with a camera and decent Wi-Fi can shoot something at noon and have it trending by dinner. The feedback loop is fast. It's not always friendly, but it's real. That kind of speed creates momentum. Audiences build. Algorithms reward consistency. A comic who might've spent a decade waiting for a break now builds their own.

Then there's money. It's always been tough to earn a living in comedy, and many don't know how to start. Now, at least, there are options. A few thousand followers on Patreon can support someone full-time. Merch, ticket links, ad revenue from YouTube views, it all adds up. Some comics get brand deals, others run workshops, and some simply ask for tips. These income streams aren't glamorous, but they keep the lights on. More importantly, they keep the comic independent. No need to change your voice to suit a sponsor or rewrite a punchline to avoid a compliance issue. Your audience backs you directly. That kind of loyalty is hard to fake.

Of course, this model isn't perfect. Algorithms can be punishing. One dud video and the momentum stalls. The pressure to stay relevant never really lifts. It's easy to burn out. Not everyone has the gear, time, or confidence to perform alone in a room. While direct platforms offer freedom, they also come with trolls, copyright claims, and the ever-present threat of your content vanishing because of a vague "community guideline" violation.

However, some of the most interesting comedy bits right now aren't polished either. It's rough. It's filmed in a hallway, or a kitchen, or somewhere you can hear traffic outside. And it's funny. Really funny. People share it not because it's perfect, but because it feels real. That kind of authenticity is hard to fake in a writer's room. It's even harder to sustain in a network meeting. It's why audiences are drifting away from scripted shows and toward creators who post directly.

There's also something honest about seeing someone bomb. On stage, sure, but also online. The clip where the timing's off. The podcast where the joke doesn't land. It makes the wins feel earned. And unlike older media, where everything was edited and glossy, DIY comedy thrives on those awkward bits. People like seeing behind the curtain.

What's surprising is how few legacy channels have caught on. Some are trying. A few YouTubers get picked up for development. A TikTok series becomes a pilot. But often, the spark that made the content special gets lost in translation. Too many notes. Too much polish. The thing people liked about it disappeared in an effort to "make it suitable for telly."

There's no going back now. DIY comedy isn't a stepping stone. It's the destination. Comedians are building audiences, making money, and controlling their careers, often from a bedroom. Whether or not a commissioner ever calls doesn't matter anymore. The crowd is already here.

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