They're adoring of their audience, unselfconsciously silly and totally authentic with their comedic timing writes Tamar Broadbent

My baby is hilarious. She can barely roll from side to side. She speaks exquisite gibberish and bursts into tears when she looks at someone and discovers it’s not me.

Sometimes, she will pick up an ‘advanced’ toy we’ve bought her, stare at it as if she has discovered something profound. Then slowly, and deliberately, try to eat it.

Comedians could learn a lot from babies. They adore their audience. Nothing is more flattering than the delight on my baby’s face when she sees me. Whether I’m picking her up from a nap or watching her twiddle the scrunchy rainbow, when she realises I am observing her, it makes her baby day. 

The feeling I get, knowing how much it means to her when I watch her grab the multi-coloured pumpkin with both hands - that’s a feeling I want to have as an audience member. I want to feel like the performer loves me. Even just a little! When I’m performing, I want the audience to know how much it means to me that they’re watching my music or jokes. My metaphorical grabbing of the multi-coloured pumpkin.

Much like when I go to get a muslin and my baby whinges, comedians notice when the audience leaves. So why not show them love when they do show up?!

Some things impede a good relationship with an audience: like fear and its nasty cousins shame and embarrassment. Nothing turns a set like the crowd sensing you’re afraid. The audience sees everything. When that last joke didn’t get the laugh you expected, and it’s showing on your face, the next one will get even less. They read that flicker of nervousness and get nervous for you.  

My baby doesn’t feel embarrassed. She is on at the very beginning of developing a sense of self. She doesn’t feel bad if I don’t applaud something she does. If she gets a single laugh, she is delighted. She’s not afraid to take risks: flip over to bump into the wobbly bear or blow an exuberant series of raspberries. And she doesn’t lie on the floor lamenting if her raspberries flop with the audience. She tries something else.

Right now, she is on her play mat. She is making a sing-song vowel sound with a sincere face. Her gaze fixed on the musical otter. I imagine she thinks she is talking to him. I laugh and she jumps; her gaze snaps to me, unaware she was being watched. It’s like a scene in a sitcom. A character caught flirting with herself in the mirror. Except the actor had to practise to perfect that physical comedy. My baby’s reaction was authentic. She is an untrained, unrehearsed, spontaneous, comedic genius!

A huge smile spreads across her face when she realises I am laughing at her. What a joy it is to do something funny and share it with someone you love.

Clown courses teach about this ​childlike spirit of play. The innocent clown looks to their audience with this same sentiment of ‘Mummy, look at me!’ So my advice? Don’t spend thousands going to clown school to get socks thrown at you. Have a baby! You’ll learn loads, and it’ll be much cheaper!*

*(NB based on no calculations and a five-month-old baby who is not old enough for an iPad.)

I’m learning so much I should put into practice, but I’m far too busy enjoying the show. As I conclude this article, my baby does a long, quiet fart. All the while, she maintains eye contact with me. She leaves it a beat. And then smiles.

Brilliant.

• Tamar Broadbent is a comedian, singer-songwriter, improviser and totally unbiased mother of a phenomenal five-month-old baby. Tamar’s comedy cabaret Plus One is on at 1pm on February 22 at the Leicester Comedy Festival. Tickets here.

Published: 10 Feb 2025