With comedy clubs thriving in London, we find out what makes for a fun, laugh-out-loud evening of entertainment.
London has loads of options for a great night out, but if you want laugh-out-loud fun, then comedy clubs are where you want to be. Not all are equal, though, and picking the right one can make or break your night.
To see this for myself, I checked out two very different comedy clubs. The first was The Queer Comedy Club in Elephant and Castle, a small, intimate space where the audience feels close to the action. The other was The Rum Monkey in Battersea, set on a barge; it had the same vibe, but with a much darker and louder style of comedy.
Both nights were packed with laughter, but for totally different reasons. When you look at them side by side, they also say something bigger about comedy today. Comedians are taking more risks again, trying bold ideas, and worrying less about getting cancelled.
The Queer Comedy Club was founded in 2022 by two friends, starting out with just one show a month. As its popularity grew, it found a permanent home at Betty and Joan’s in Elephant Park and now hosts five shows a week.
The night I attended was one of its raw comedy events, which felt more like a rehearsal than a finished show, as many of the comedians used the stage to test new material before taking it out on tour.
Some jokes worked instantly. Others needed more time or were dropped completely mid-flow. Instead of feeling awkward, the room felt supportive. Everyone knew the jokes were still being worked out, and the audience played a part by reacting honestly.
One thing that is true of any comedy club is that if you end up in the front row, as I unfortunately did, you should be prepared to become part of the show. Once the stage lights spill over the first few rows, there is nowhere to hide. Teasing is almost guaranteed.
At the Queer Comedy Club, it was playful rather than cruel, while at Rum Monkey, it became far more personal. Either way, everyone in the room understood that it was all part of the fun and done for laughs.
For queer comedians like Kyriakos Vlachos, the Queer Comedy Club is more than just a venue. Originally from Greece, Vlachos has been doing stand-up in the UK for almost two years, after spending years creating musical comedy and monologues back home.
He says funny storytelling comes naturally, partly as a way of coping: “My brain automatically turns my everyday experiences into jokes,” he says. “My internal monologue is basically a sarcastic podcast reacting to my own life, even when things are going badly.”
Despite always wanting to try stand-up, Vlachos put it off after moving to London, held back by the fear of trying to be funny in a second language. That fear, he admits, has not entirely gone away.
“To be fair, I still am,” he says. “I’m just doing it scared now.” The final push came from an unexpected place. After listening to a growing list of plans that never quite happened, his therapist challenged him on why he kept holding back.
Within days, Vlachos had asked for a spot at a comedy club, and he has not stopped since. “Therapy works,” he adds. “Sometimes aggressively.”
Although he now performs in a wide range of venues, queer comedy clubs remain his emotional home. The Queer Comedy Club is where he started and where he still feels most at ease.
Differences between audiences, he says, often come down to shared references. Some jokes land instantly with queer crowds, while straight audiences can sometimes look like they are reading subtitles.
Even so, he enjoys the risk. Fully leaning into his gayest material in unfamiliar rooms can sometimes bring the house down. Other nights, it dies quietly. Learning to accept both outcomes has become part of the work.
Stepping on stage is still an emotional gamble. When the vibe is right and early laughs come easily, nerves melt into confidence, opening space for a more honest connection with the crowd.
“Therapy works. Sometimes aggressively.”
Kyriakos Vlachos
On nights when a set really works, Vlachos says he never wants to leave the stage. For a queer millennial who grew up in Eastern Europe learning how not to draw attention to himself, being celebrated for exactly who he is feels deeply affirming.
In both venues, nothing is off limits. Politics, sex, identity, failure, and joy all sit side by side comfortably, without the pressure to appeal to everyone, but while the Queer Comedy Club keeps it light, Rum Monkey goes in hard, but that’s what you pay for.
It’s a venue that offers a unique experience, set on the iconic Battersea Barge on the River Thames in London. It was launched around 2020, and quickly became known for its dark, boundary-pushing humour and crowd roasts, drawing audiences looking for comedy that is unfiltered and unexpected.
The venue is unusual, set across multiple decks, including a glass upper deck with river views and a theatre space below, which helped it stand out from more traditional comedy clubs, and it has since built a reputation for wild nights of laughter.
On the night I went, three acts took to the stage, including one comedian standing six foot seven tall, who spent the entirety of his set battling with the low boat roof.
Earlier in the evening, he had been serving pizzas on the top deck, making his later appearance behind the microphone all the more unexpected.
The material was brilliant, unapologetic, and often deliberately offensive. More than once, it required a conscious reminder that these were jokes, a reminder that was usually followed by laughter.
Hosting the night was Dan Wise, a comedian with over twenty years of experience, who believes he has seen comedy come full circle: “When I started, comedy was just comedy,” he says. “People came out, heard jokes, went home. It rarely made the news.”
That changed, he argues, during a period when offence became the dominant conversation. “It felt like everyone was offended by everything, and there was this constant threat of cancelling anyone who said something someone didn’t like”.
Having heard every heckle and watched audiences shift over decades, Wise now feels the tide turning back. “What I’m seeing again is people coming out because they want to hear jokes,” he says.
“Not statements dressed up as jokes, not lectures, just joke telling.” He is clear about the role dark comedy plays in that landscape. “The Rum Monkey is a home for things that would never make it onto television. Controversial jokes, uncomfortable ideas, all of it. That’s the point.”
Audiences, he says, seem to agree. Dark comedy has expanded to a second venue in Soho, with both locations regularly packed. “People know what they’re getting,” Wise adds. “They choose it, and they love it.”
The jokes told below deck on a Battersea barge would not belong at the Queer Comedy Club, and that is exactly the point. The two venues are built for very different audiences, with very different expectations.
Neither is better than the other, but choosing the right one matters. Get it right, and you leave with aching sides. Get it wrong, and you may spend the night sitting stone-faced.
Seen together, they tell a bigger story about comedy right now. In Elephant and Castle, comedy thrives on trust, vulnerability, and shared risk. On the Thames, it survives on provocation and the thrill of crossing lines.
Between them, and in rooms like them across the city, comedy seems to have found its way back to what it does best: telling jokes, taking risks, and reminding people why laughter is still worth gathering for.
Most nights at the Queer Comedy Club are free to enter, with voluntary donations encouraged. Rum Monkey, however, charges for entry every night, although tickets can be bought as part of a package that includes unlimited pizza and a drink.