Comedian Paddy Young sold caps at last year’s Edinburgh festival fringe emblazoned with his memorable show title: Hungry, Horny, Scared. They were a hit. “I had a sellout run but doubled my profits on hats alone,” he said. “Increasingly, comedians have to find inventive ways of making money.”
Now the show lives on through the merchandise. “It’s a good acid test for a show title: funny and memorable, with a touch of sleaze,” Young said. “It’s surreal to see them in the wild: I was a little the worse for wear at Glastonbury when I saw a Hungry, Horny, Scared cap in the toilet cubicle next to mine.”
What was once the preserve of the music industry has now spread to comedy. In West End theatres, at the fringe and on standup tours, comedians are increasingly likely to end the night manning a merch stall. Audiences can pick up earrings, T-shirts, tote bags, notebooks, caps and even temporary tattoos.
“It’s definitely becoming more common,” said comedian and poet Rob Auton, who has been selling merch since 2007, from handmade books of poems to posters and T-shirts. “People are able to set up shops online so people can buy when they get home. Also, with all the printers online now, it’s so easy to drop a logo on to a cap or T-shirt and get them delivered.”
Comedian Kiri Pritchard-McLean first branched into merch with custom tote bags for All Killa No Filla, the podcast she hosts with fellow comic Rachel Fairburn. “People were asking: ‘Where’s the merch?’” she said.
She sees a financial dimension to the trend. “In music, no one buys music any more, so you’ve got to make money on merch and tickets. With comedy, the equivalent of selling your music is TV, and TV is in a pretty rough place.
“So if you can make money from live touring, merch is a great add-on. It’s definitely helped me keep afloat on a long tour.”
When she first made merch for her standup shows, Pritchard-McLean picked bumbags. She wanted them to be ethically sourced, so she found a wholesaler selling recycled polyester bumbags, bought the items in bulk, then had them customised. “I managed to sell them all, thank God. In Edinburgh, that money paid for food and train tickets.”
Now on tour with her new show, Peacock, Pritchard-McLean gave herself a motif to work with. She commissioned a small jewellery business to make peacock feather earrings and necklaces, and had offcuts from her stage costume turned into keyrings.
Tour income could come in chunks, she said, and acts might go six months without a payout, so the small but steady stream from merch could bridge that gap.
There are obstacles to making money, though. With Pritchard-McLean’s focus on ethical products, margins are tighter. She wants items that are low-carbon and exploitation-free, but without pricing out fans. “Normally, you’d be making pounds – we make pence,” she said.
On tour, some venues charge commission on merch sales – up to 25% in Pritchard-McLean’s experience: “I’d end up giving someone a pair of earrings and £3 of my money.”
Kate Cheka created tote bags and candles for her fringe debut this year. The bags feature a line from the show, where she talks about escaping capitalism to live in the forest with her “tits out eating berries”. She makes £2 on each item but faced a unique issue: “Asking for money doesn’t really align with the theme of my show!”
Jon Thoday, co-founder of the Avalon entertainment agency, is a producer of the comedy musical Operation Mincemeat, a relatively new addition to London’s West End that is based on a second world war British intelligence deception mission.
The show has striking branding: a shade of yellow that has been incorporated into the Fortune theatre venue itself with a bespoke stage curtain and also extends to its merch.
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Operation Mincemeat was “still in early days as a brand”, said Thoday, but “our intention with the merchandise is to complement the show and be part of the experience for the people who see it”.
There are three strands of Operation Mincemeat merch: items such as posters that reflect the yellow marketing image; objects that mirror what is on stage, such as a notebook similar to that used by the characters; and fans (known as “Mincefluencers”) making their own items.
Official merchandise would not make a big difference to the bottom line until the show had grown overseas, said Thoday: “Our gross sales to date are £180,000, and off that, we probably make £30,000 to £40,000. The show costs more than £100,000 a week to run.”
Sales are increasing, though, and the show has superfans – some of whom have seen it 80 times. “We’re lucky that we’ve got very big repeat business, so actually the merchandise is growing all the time,” said Thoday. In the meantime “it should be fun… it’s part of the experience” … but “at the moment, it’s more of a promotional thing”.
In her show, Cheka talks about her Tanzanian politician father, who distributed clothes with his face on which functioned as electoral advertisements when people wore them. She took that lesson on board: “The idea was to get something like that made, so they’re a walking advertisement for you.”
Others at this year’s fringe, including standups Erika Ehler, who designed socks and earrings, and Sarah Roberts, who sold temporary tattoos, agreed. “If a punter is wearing my earrings and someone compliments them, they are going tell the person where they got it from,” said Ehler. As with the Mincemeat superfans, merch can help build a community. “It’s a really good way to make money but it also allows you to have an interaction with people,” said Auton. “Often, the conversation I have with someone when they are buying something after a show is as valuable, if not more valuable, than the money they are spending.”
Last year, Auton sold T-shirts featuring a line from his show. Seeing people wearing them, “makes me feel really connected to them somehow. It’s a fantastic symbol of support.”
Pritchard-McLean, who packages every order with a personal note, said when she sees someone wearing her earrings: “I squeal like a pig! I get so excited. I’ve literally parcelled up their order, that’s such a connection.”
