Born in south London in1986, Rob Beckett isacomedian and broadcaster. He started on the standup circuit in 2009, performing atthe Edinburgh fringe in 2012 withhis show RobBeckett’s SummerHoliday. Television quickly beckoned – after hosting ITV2’s I’maCelebrity spin-off series, hebecame a panel-show regular, appearing on programmes including 8Out of 10 Cats and Taskmaster, as well as the travel series Rob & Romesh vs … . In 2020, he launched the hit podcast Parenting Hell withcomedianJosh Widdicombe. Heis married and has two daughters. His current tour, Giraffe, continues until April 2026.
That’s my dad in the background but,aside from that, I’ve got no other details. It might have been on holiday, possibly at my dad’s mate’s place in Spain. We always went there– hegaveit to us for cheap, but I’m not sure why. You don’t ask questions inmy family.
I don’t know why I was crying, either. As a parent myself, I do wonderif my first reaction on seeing my child upset would be: “That’s agood picture.” I’d probably be more likely to put the camera down and try to resolve it. I certainly wouldn’t wantto document it at a time when taking aphoto and getting it developed was amassivecommitment.
Maybe it’s a fundamental personality trait or being the middle child, but I’d describe my younger self as beinga“shy attention-seeker”. Idefinitely liked making people laugh,and I got good at it because it was so competitive in my house. Everyone was loud and funny – Iwasjust the only one who decided todo it in the formal setting ofacomedy club.
Apart from when I was with my circle of friends, I didn’t make jokesat school. Where I was from inMottingham, you got attention bybeing good at fighting or being good atfootball. There were no class clowns – the type of humour preferred at myschool was essentially being naughty. It was kids screwing up balls of paper and throwing them at the teacher’s head, and then watching them implode, rather than someone getting up at the front of class and doing a couple of gags.
I felt a bit lost and alone when I was little because I couldn’t learn in the same way as everyone else. I wasn’t very good academically – Irecently found out that was because I was dyslexic. Being undiagnosed for so long, coupled with a teacher telling meaged four that I was not intelligent and wouldn’t amount to anything, meant I spent a lot of my younger yearswith no self-confidence.
That insecurity, coupled with the working-class fear of having nomoney, made me very driven. So,when I found that I had the ability to do standup, I was like a dog with abone. I thought: “Comedy is the only thing I’ve got. I’ve been told I’vegot nothing else, but they can’t tell me Ihaven’t got this!” It started out of fearand carried on out of ego, toprovethe teachers wrong.
As a teenager, I’d watch standup comics on TV and I realised I could predict the punchline. It made me think that I could probably write my own jokes. I was 23 when I finally got the courage to do it in public. My first gig was at Up the Creek in Greenwich. Idon’t normally drink before a gig, but I had two pints to get my confidence up. Until that point, I had never done anything on stage; even inschool plays I was mostly at the back. Iremember the brightness ofthe lights – it was like the beam of 20cars were on me. But I got through five minutes, I got a few laughs, and Isurvived. When I got home that night, I couldn’t sleep. I started kicking my feet with excitement and the covers came off me. I was so adrenalised and excited; it felt like I’d done a skydive.
When I started gigging properly, Iset myself a goal – I’d do four shows aweek just to reduce the amount of fear I had. I was doing temp jobs in offices at the time, so, often, I’d finish my shift then go out and get dinner, which was always the£1 shit sushi from Tesco. I’d then sleep in a disabled toilet in the office before my gig. I’dcurl up on the floor in the corner, normally by the shower.
I hid the fact that I was doing standup comedy from my family for ages, just in case it went wrong. I knew my mum and dad would be OK with it, butIdidn’t want my extended family to find out and go: “Oh, he’s tried to befunny on stage. What a wanker.” It’svery much a working-class mentality. There are certain people who don’t want anyone to do well – they’d rather drag you down than encourage you, because other people’s success shines a light back on their own unwillingness to try.
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At first I used comedy as a tool to help with my self-worth, but that method quickly became toxic. A bad gig would dictate my mood for the whole week. Through therapy, Ican now detach myself from who I am as aperformer. If the gig goes well, that’sgreat, but it has no impact on me as an individual. That said, I am planning on taking a break. I’vealways loved standup, and always will, but I would like to have a hiatus from it after this tour. I want to focus on the girls, because they’ll be 11 andnine when it finishes. By the time they’re teens, I want to be regarded as the minicab dad. I want them to be so bored of me when I come through the front door that they don’t even somuch as look up, as opposed to it being a big event.
The Parenting Hell podcast was born out of the difficulties of raising kids during the pandemic, but it has become like an audio reality show ofmine and Josh’s lives. People find itinteresting because it’s relatable – wemight both be on the telly, butthatdoesn’t stop your boiler exploding just before you take your kids to school in the morning.
I do still relate to the boy in the picture. I feel a bit sorry for him – notbecause of the crying, but because of how confused he was about to be at school, and how long it took to find out why. I still cry a lot – I am pretty in touch with my emotions. Anything can set me off: if my kids say something really sweet, or if Ihave a sad thought. I’ve fully opened the doors now and I’m happy for thefeelings to flow in and out. Plus, I’m just constantly tired. Everyone’s emotional when they’re tired. I got one of those health monitors recently, and it keeps telling me that I’ve only had three hours sleep. I’m like, tell meabout it!
Do I still define myself as a shy attention-seeker? In my personal life, I definitely struggle with being the centre of attention. I don’t ever want any big drama around me. If there’s a problem, I’m never the one to say: “Guys, we need to go for a drink and talk.” I don’t really do big birthday parties, either. But then my profession would suggest I am still desperate for abit of the spotlight. Maybe a reluctant attention-seeker is a better phrase.
