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Born in Devon in 1978, comedian Lou Sanders was brought up in Broadstairs, Kent. In 2018, her show Shame Pig was the joint winner of the Comedians’ Choice award for best show at the Edinburgh festival fringe. She has appeared on QI, 8 Out of 10 Cats and Taskmaster, which she won in 2019. Her memoir, What’s That Lady Doing?, was published in 2023. Sanders performs her new show, No Kissing in the Bingo Hall, throughout 2025.
This is me aged six, having a game of cricket in a park in Thanet. It would have been me and my brother plus my stepdad’s eldest son, who was lovely, but very different from us. He was in the brass band and super smart, while we were feral, very free – the type of kids who would scoop the cream off a cake with our fingers.
The outfit in the photo isn’t particularly outlandish, but I loved clothes when I was growing up. Mum says I would change three times a day to suit my mood. I felt as if I lost myself entirely every time I put on my school uniform, especially when I got to secondary school. We had to wear a three-quarter-length blue and green tartan kilt with a big safety pin. I was quite big-boned and didn’t fit in my body. I thought: “I can’t thrive in this outfit!”
I wouldn’t say I was funny as a kid. I was too busy being a people pleaser – emotionally checking in, making sure everyone was all right. I was, however, wildly confident and delusional. Mum gave us a lot of independence and I happily took the reins, which, on reflection, is a bad idea for a six-year-old. If a wall was too high or looked unsafe, my brother would send me up to try it out first as a guinea pig, and I’d always oblige. Once I fancied a boy at school and organised myself a party so he would come. When everyone arrived, they were asking: “Why is this party in Lou’s bedroom, and where’s the food?” It turns out a party in a bedroom with no food is quite the turn off.
I was the type of teenager who wore Dr Martens and had “Meat is murder” stickers. That sounds quite cool, but I was mainly doing it for attention, and the actual cool girls at school were the over-feminised ones. They would go on about strawberry lip balm – I couldn’t believe how long they could drag out a conversation about that stuff. School reports would say I was talkative and a silly goose, and probably in the top five, intelligence-wise. Doesn’t matter that the class only had 10 people in it.
I was such a dick when I was 15. I was hell-bent on doing whatever I wanted, which was exclusively kissing boys and getting drunk. Nothing would stand in my way of achieving my goals. I felt like my town wasn’t big enough for me, and I was desperate to go to London. I didn’t know what I wanted to do but I wanted to do something. The problem was, I wasn’t good at anything. For a while I thought I could be an actor, but then I realised I wasn’t great at being someone else. Then I decided I could be a TV presenter. I went to a talent search for presenters – me and a few thousand other young hopefuls turned up and had to show a panel of TV executives how extroverted we were. It was extremely cringey. I was quite big and had acne, and of course the skinny blond girl who was very animated got the job.
My 20s were turbulent and revolved mainly round drinking and drugs. I didn’t have the self-esteem or belief I could do anything. Subconsciously I knew I wanted to try comedy – when I got drunk I would tell my then boyfriend that standup was my ambition. The real turning point happened in my mid-20s when me and my beautiful friend Sally went to a festival. Everyone kept coming up to me and telling me Sally was beautiful. Eventually I thought: “I’m not her bouncer – why don’t you tell her?” One of those people was a guy who worked for a media company and he also said: “You’re really funny, you should do comedy.” I clutched on to that – “Finally someone has told me I should do comedy. Plus it’s a middle-aged man, and they know everything!” After that I did a standup course in London, one day a week for six weeks. Then I was on my way.
The early gigs were painful. My jokes were very smutty – so not much has changed there. But I didn’t feel free to be myself. I quit loads of times because I didn’t feel confident. I went around the houses trying to find my onstage persona and it turns out, it’s just me.
Now I find it impossible to not be myself, which can be a problem when I’m having a bad day. There was one Edinburgh fringe where I was having a breakdown, and as a result I’d go on stage acting quite raw and vulnerable. Years ago I was engaged, and the night we split up I went straight out to do a gig. I was a shell of a person and the audience could pick up on it. In the end I told them I’d just split up with my fiance. It pierced the atmosphere and I went on to have a good gig. But a horrible private life.
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In my 30s I was embarrassed by my age. But not any more. The prevalent message is still that women get their power from being fuckable, and while I do sometimes panic and think maybe I’ll get a face and neck lift, I then think: Why? I don’t want to look like a baby. I had a kinesiologist once, she had this long white hair and was so elegant. Only wore a scrap of moisturiser, a flick of mascara if it was a big day. She had this innate peace to her and I thought: “That’s the kind of beauty you can’t get injected into you.” That being said, I was on Sunday Brunch recently talking about this, and when I saw a clip of it online afterwards I thought: “Fucking hell, I look old.” I should really take some of my own medicine, but it’s not easy.
I’d like to think I am ageing joyfully. I own two trampolines. I took up roller skating, gymnastics. But mostly it’s about mindset. I feel so lucky to do comedy for a job. I had a breakthrough recently, after 16 years in the biz, that I’m just going to enjoy everything. For a long time I’d get caught up in what my contemporaries were doing. I’d watch James Acaster and think: “Wow, I love this. His writing is so good. Every single line of mine needs to be that good.” But that’s not the comedian I am. I am never going to do a show that is word perfect.
Still, sometimes it’s hard to stay positive. There are times when I think: “My mum has dementia. My cat has had his leg amputated. I wish I had a partner.” It’s as if, the older you get, the easier it is to feel negative, as if the world is getting harder and smaller. When that happens I have to stop myself from spiralling. Life doesn’t have to be so serious. Go and look at that amazing sunset, or go and get a whoopie cushion. A third trampoline. Whatever it takes.
