...but neurodiverse people like me still suffer ableism, says Stephen Catling

I was not diagnosed with autism until I was 23. It made me laugh when a fellow autistic comic and friend said in the most baffled and confused voice: ‘How the hell did they miss you?’

The year was 2017. I had travelled all the way from Surrey to Derbyshire for the assessment. The psychologist asked me questions about my childhood. I have 1,000-yard stares due to the pain and trauma, but recount how I did not develop normally.  As a small child I refused to talk in general conversations  –  but heaven help any adult who misnamed the Allosaurus as a Tyrannosaurus Rex (they are not even from the same time period!). I was not reading and writing normally until later in primary school, and I struggled socialising. 

Like many other people with autism, the condition makes life hard. In the world of work we have to mask (if we can) lest the neurotypicals not accept us and not give us that interview, that job or, worse, make the job so unbearable, bullying us with their ableism, that we feel pressured to leave (true story).  But it does make seeing patterns in data or coming up with outside-the-box thinking easier. 

However, it has certainly scuppered some potential romances. Being totally clueless when someone was showing physical attraction, I would not pick up on obvious cues – like the time a gorgeous woman put her arms around me and said: ‘I would like to go home.’  I took her to the bus. I did not get on the bus. 

The comedy industry celebrates the idiosyncratic, gives voice to the oddball. Like many of my colleagues (Bethany Black, Pierre Novelle, Charlie George) being a neurodiverse person in comedy gave me something nothing else has – an ability to connect with the rest of humanity. 

I remember distinctly the feeling of connectedness I felt in my first-ever performance as I made them howl with laughter. Whereas in my life, my idiosyncrasies were often bemusing, here my mind was celebrated for its unique thinking. It made me feel I could relate to people while astounding and flabbergasting them.

Many articles and papers celebrate autism, but I have also seen things that have concerned me as much as the time a co-worker asked me: ‘Do autistic people use their condition as an excuse to get away with things without being questioned?’ 

One such article in The Spectator in  August last year stated: ‘How neurodiversity took over the Edinburgh Fringe.’ This damning piece noticed that there was a spike in neurodiverse shows in the festival and rather than commenting that these were genuine people with genuine conditions, it made grim accusations that they were some kind of fame hogs trying to get their five minutes by trying to tick diversity boxes. 

Disgusting language was also used that described these conditions as ‘illnesses’ and other ableist terms – not really a surprise as The Spectator has called autism a terrible illness before, and has portrayed the condition as some insidious destructive force.

The sentiments that ‘everybody has ADHD/autism’ now and that ‘We are all on the spectrum, aren’t we?’ (Answer: no, no we are not all on the spectrum) are deeply dismissive and problematic. Likewise, the infantilisation and attempt to invalidate those who are neurodiverse also deeply worries me, and shows how ableism towards the neurodiverse is still considered acceptable. 

Another example is the ableist comments stand-up Alex Mitchell received following his performances on Britain’s Got Talent about the functional neurological disorder that means he has involuntary tics. 

Ableism is not new to me. One reviewer once wrote that for a show on autism, I did not cover autism heavily. But as a friend of mine said: ‘I know you do delve into the theme of autism in a clever and skilful way – and this bloke doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

This is just one example of how it feels as an autistic performer sometimes, expected to think and behave in a way that the industry wants rather than showing autism in my own unconventional and obtuse way.

Such expectations on how I should or not present myself (or if I should at all) is not limited to reviewers. Even some of my peers have come at me. I have argued in the past  about the power of comedy to help educate and dispel misunderstanding and ignorance. But a fellow comic proceeded to tell me I was the wrong person to do this and it should be a much more conventional type act to take on such a mantle – me dressing up as a dog priest or bee was making things worse. 

Neurodiverse people are just that – diverse. We come in all shapes and sizes some do excellent observations on autism, like Joe Wells, while others, such as myself, do it in an absurdist way. If the industry tries to impose a mould of how autistic comics should or should not be, then I consider it our duty to smash it as part of our liberation. 

Undoubtedly I still need to address autism within my work as it still informs me. But at the same time I dislike to be defined as solely as an autistic comedian. As a friend put it: ‘You are an alternative comedian who has autism not an autism alternative comedian.’

However, this year I will be focusing more on depression, relationships and not just autism in my new show while still doing all the weird set pieces that has got me recognition from many in the industry in previous years.

•  Stephen Catling’s new show Moving on… Really Really Slowly is on at 7.30pm at the Counting House throughout the Fringe.

Published: 8 Aug 2025