Edinburgh Fringe comedy review

Is comedy on the cusp of another much-vaunted #MeToo moment? It seems unlikely, with forces ranged against those seeking to speak out too entrenched, too much part of the established order. Yet mutterings about toxic male behaviour in the industry seem to be getting louder at this festival. And Sophie Duker is more open than most in fingering one of UK comedy's biggest beasts for his predatory actions.

Duker knows all about fingering of course. A recovering straight, the bisexual comic is wistful about her heterosexual prowess, but last had a male partner six years ago and shares with horror her recollections of adolescent fumblings from teenage boys.

Posh but from a single parent, West African, female-dominated upbringing, she credits Cynthia Erivo with giving women like her a voice, albeit one that can still be dismissed as crazy. And she appreciates that that's a relatively subtle characterisation.

For her core audience of men, particularly the 'milky' white ones, she's a 'black, queer woman with a microphone', an object of fascination and intimidation, so she needs to be careful in how she tickles them.

That's made explicit in her mention of a recent social media debate, the thought experiment that found that most women would rather find themselves alone in a forest with a random bear than a random man. Playing up the positive traits of famous fictional critters such as Paddington with winsome tongue-in-cheek, she nevertheless makes her point that men have become confused and threatening in their unpredictability. And just not a patch on bears.

She also reaches for another established animal metaphor to suggest that today's empowered women need a man like a fish needs a bicycle. A straight girl whisperer, she's on a nefarious mission to convert. But she can't dismiss men completely. As an auntie to a boy obsessed with cars, likely the most toxic male environment of them all, she's got a vested interest in nurturing the next generation to be better.

Stridently high-status, assured in her sexuality and professional accomplishment as a comic, Duker reflects upon her appeal for the simpering 'soy boys' of Edinburgh's middle-class festival-goers. And her vampish tartan outfit doesn't feel like a pander to her Scottish, predominantly white, audience. Instead, in this castle city, it's a knowing invasion of ramparts, announcing her belonging.

Breaking into male spaces comes at a cost. The story of how Duker came to audition for some of the most prestigious gigs in the land, prostrating and paying homage to the self-anointed king that bestows them is familiar, at least within the industry. Still, the exact circumstances, the condescension and the lechery are shocking.

Such menacing behaviour isn't the sole preserve of showbusiness of course, as she shares an even more chilling account of being out, alone at night in Paris. And even the most empowered, confident woman can still require the skills of tradesmen to fix things in their home. The vulnerability that entails isn't necessarily obvious until the privilege of access is abused.

Playfully toying with the male ego, poking and prodding it with insouciant cheek, Duker is wittily flip and grandstandingly sassy here, knowing that this is a resounding statement show, baring her teeth and smiling back at those that would make her feel small and intimidated.

Review date: 17 Aug 2026
Reviewed by: Jay Richardson
Reviewed at: Pleasance Courtyard