A lot of comedians think hosting is easy.

You go up, tell a couple jokes, bring up the next comic, and occasionally say “give it up” loud enough to scare someone holding mozzarella sticks.
That is not hosting.

Hosting is one of the hardest jobs in comedy because your job is not just to be funny. Your job is to make the entire show work.

​A strong host can make an average lineup feel amazing.
A weak host can make a killer lineup feel exhausting.

A lot of people forget that venue relationships matter. They are just as important as the relationships you build with the audience and the comedians you serve.

Comedy shows have had a bad reputation in the past because some performers treat venues like disposable stages instead of shared spaces. They come in, scare away regular customers with edgy material nobody asked for, leave the staff to deal with the tension, and then wonder why the venue does not want comedy anymore.

A venue is not just a backdrop for your show.

It is a business.

It has staff, regulars, customers, expenses, and a reputation to protect. If you are producing a comedy night, you are not only responsible for the comedians. You are also responsible for making sure the venue feels respected and supported.

That means starting on time, ending on time, communicating clearly, bringing in audiences, encouraging people to buy food and drinks, and making sure the show does not create problems for the staff.

The goal is not just to make comics happy.

The goal is to make the room sustainable.

If the venue trusts you, they will give the show room to grow. If they do not trust you, they will eventually stop taking the risk.

Comedy needs stages, and stages require relationships.

Do not treat the venue like it is lucky to have you.

​Treat it like a partner.

A good venue relationship also protects the comedians. When the staff trusts the producer, the room feels more stable. Comics know where to go, when they’re on, how the night works, and what kind of space they’re performing in. That stability makes the show better for everyone. The audience relaxes, the staff feels respected, and the comedians can focus on doing their job.

Writing is probably one of the hardest parts of stand-up because the goal is not just to be funny. The goal is to craft material that sounds distinctively like you.

Your best jokes should feel like they could only come from your brain, your life, your damage, your weird little emotional filing cabinet.
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There are other types of comedy where people create characters rooted in truth, and I honestly think that can be even harder. If you are playing a character, you have to be convincing enough that the audience believes the world you are creating. The moment you break that, the joke falls apart.

When I first started comedy, my first spot was at the Newbie Tuesday open mic at The Comedy Nest. I had no idea what I was doing. I had prepared what I now recognize as a memorized monologue that I delivered on stage like I was defending a thesis nobody asked for.

There were some light chuckles, but it was definitely a trial-by-fire moment. It taught me that stand-up is not just about writing something funny. It is about learning how to perform it, adjust it, and survive the silence long enough to make it better.

By the time I got my first paid set, which was all the way in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue and hosted by Natascha Filion, I had a better system. I was still nervous, but I developed a system that helped me become more efficient with how I tested material. 

But I also had over 25 years of musical training behind me, and that helped. Music taught me discipline, repetition, structure, and how to prepare for performance without assuming adrenaline would magically save me.

That first booked show made me feel like all the open mics, awkward sets, rewrites, and late-night self-doubt were worth it.

Here are a few things you can do to prepare for your first booked comedy show.

It’s been a busy time, and I haven’t been able to write — but I’d feel like I was doing a disservice if I didn’t say something.

Before our Tuesday show at Mackay, a fellow comic showed me one of the videos that’s been circulating. My initial reaction was immediate: that’s not something we would ever do at Comedy on Mackay. Social media suicide. I dismissed it right away as another example of how businesses misuse AI — something I’ve seen happen repeatedly until their ventures eventually folded. I brushed it off because, frankly, it wasn’t my show, not my problem.

Then it was brought to my attention again — this time by another comic — that the video had been created using Sora, OpenAI’s new text-to-video model. For those unfamiliar, Sora generates realistic, cinematic footage directly from written prompts. In other words, you can describe a scene, and Sora will create a moving image of it.

​However, Eva Alexos from The Kickback posted an argument that made me think more deeply. This isn’t about business models or branding — it’s about what makes comedy so profoundly human: the humans themselves.

Doing stand-up comedy is one of the most vulnerable things you can do on stage. Now, imagine doing it in a second language — where the rhythm, timing, and slang don’t always land how you practiced them in your head. That’s not just vulnerability — it’s linguistic bungee jumping.

Not many people know this about me, but I speak eight languages: Tagalog, English, Portuguese, Spanish, French, German, Chinese, and Italian. That’s what happens when you live in Europe for eight years and collect languages like Pokémon. But fluency isn’t permanent — it fades if you don’t use it. And when I decided to write and perform my first comedy set in Spanish, one of my favourite languages, I felt all that rust loud and clear.