‘People think I'm a way better bloke than I am': Why this comedian is trashing his do-good image

The Age

01-07-2025

It was the night of the US election, and Luke Kidgell was working at a venue in Los Angeles. An Aussie abroad, watching history unfold. The residents of the predominantly blue Californian state were anxiously awaiting the results, though many of those Kidgell had spoken to before had resigned themselves to an incoming Republican president.
At the venue, the emcee hopped on the mic every 30 minutes, updating the audience with the latest vote count, slowly but surely confirming their worst fears.
Tough gig for the guy on stage trying to make everyone laugh.
As we sit down to lunch, Kidgell tells me that some crowds are inevitably better than others, though a bunch of progressives staring down four more years of Donald Trump wasn't his toughest audience.
That, he says, was when he opened for Steve-O, a prankster from the dangerously disgusting 2000s-era show Jackass. Steve-O became famous for stunts such as sticking a hook through his cheek and throwing himself into the ocean as 'shark bait'. It was safe to say his audience came to the gig expecting some hardcore content.
'They didn't want the jokes,' Kidgell says with a laugh. 'It was just a bunch of neckbeards in heavy metal T-shirts waiting for Steve-O. Like, 'Why is this little boy on stage?''
Difficult shows are bound to happen when you relentlessly tour the world for four years – the trick is to dwell for no more than 24 hours before getting over it, Kidgell says.
He is one of a handful of Australian comedians who can regularly sell out shows from Europe to America, at famed venues such as LA's Laugh Factory and Indigo at London's O2 Arena. If you haven't heard of him, you're probably not on TikTok, where he has amassed millions of followers and posts clips of improvised interactions with crowds.
Those international gigs are a long way from Melbourne's north-eastern suburbs, where Kidgell grew up.
He still lives nearby, and he chose this, his local pub, for our lunch because in his mind 'it would be funny' but also 'extremely convenient'.
We arrive at the Diamond Creek Hotel, affectionately known as the Diamo pub, and take in the atmosphere.
'I've never been here at this hour,' Kidgell says, appraising the grandparents shuffling between the bistro and pokie machines.
'I've never made a better choice in my life. It's awesome.'
The meal he orders reveals as much about his simple tastes as the location, despite his globetrotting lifestyle. Kidgell ignores my efforts to elevate our dining experience by pointing out there are oysters on the menu, and states he wants a parma.
He says it with such conviction that I hurry to the counter – there's no table service, and drinks are ordered separately at the bar – forgetting we are also supposed to get sides. On the spot, I order my Dorito-crumbed chicken burger, glance over the menu again and pick the popcorn cauliflower for a side.
Wrong choice.
When it arrives at the table, Kidgell looks at the dish as if it has just told a very bad joke, calls it a bold order and doesn't touch it throughout the meal. (The parma, smothered in stretchy, wet cheese, and a side of chips are meticulously devoured.)
My Dorito burger has certainly got its namesake crunch, but I forgot to ask for no jalapenos, so I put it down and return to our conversation.
Doing stand-up comedy might be many people's worst nightmare but Kidgell relishes it. He recalls his first-ever gig at the Imperial Hotel near Melbourne's Parliament Station: 'I think I got, like, three laughs, but it was enough to get me to come back.'
The 29-year-old has been chasing those laughs since he was a teen in high school, which is where we first met, though we haven't caught up for more than a decade.
I remember him as someone who was more interested in joking around than studying, dedicating endless hours of his lunchtime filming skits with his friends. The videos would be posted to the early iterations of Facebook in a group that quickly developed a mass following among his classmates.
I ask Kidgell to describe what he was like when he was younger, and whether it was natural that he went on to make people laugh for a living.
'Can you [describe me]?' he asks instead.
'I would classify you as a class clown-type,' I say.
'You can use the term attention-seeker,' he says. 'That's probably more accurate.'
He reveals to me over lunch that it was in our high school history class he was told for the first time he should be a stand-up comic – by a likely disgruntled teacher tired of his interruptions, but still.
'[She said] you should do stand-up comedy, laughed, and then walked away,' he recalls. 'I have a distinct memory of her saying that ... It was the first time anyone's ever suggested it, even if it was a joke. She was probably like, 'That would be the worst'. And I was like, 'She's onto something'.'
Kidgell admits he was never particularly studious, and he has certainly maintained his laid-back demeanour, lounging in his chair on the Diamo pub's balcony in his plain white tee and jeans.
'I was capable, but didn't apply myself – the correct terminology is underachiever,' he says.
I try to tease out what goes into building such an impressive brand, having seen the shift from that kid goofing off in class, but he's reluctant to talk about his success.
Kidgell brushes off the size of his social media following, cringes when I use the word 'fans', and claims comedians leech more off society than they contribute. ('Oh, such a service that we do,' he quips. 'Getting up there and having people pay to hear our thoughts!')
But a serious drive lurks beneath that unassuming surface.
Kidgell co-owns a business with his brother and manager, Jack, and they have 10 employees working on a plethora of projects: they have a new, self-produced comedy special; they've built an almost 3 million-strong social media following; Kidgell is in the midst of a three-year-long tour schedule; he's just written a new show; he performs up to four times a week when he's in Melbourne; and he has a podcast.
And his attention to detail extends beyond being able to mop up every inch of a pub parma. Kidgell colour codes his writing so he can tell how funny his script is at a glance, and he keeps track of how many gigs he's done – 1304 at the time of interview.
Oh, and he's training for a marathon.
'I only really do the [social media] videos as a means to make it a career,' he eventually elaborates.
'I just knew it would sell me tickets, and it worked. I think it worked better than I thought it would. I kind of was just like, 'Oh, man, if I could just do this full-time, that'd be great'. And now we've started a whole business, and it's a whole thing.'
Kidgell rode the wave of social media as Instagram and then TikTok exploded, and says being online is increasingly becoming a requirement for entertainers to get exposure.
'I think every comedian now has realised that you need to be on social media. And it works,' he says. 'It's where most people under 30 consume media. I don't know why you wouldn't be on it at this point. It would be a disservice to your career if you weren't where everyone's eyes are.'
He says his willingness to take a punt and improvise with crowds plays well online, but it was an interaction with a woman with Tourette's in regional New South Wales that first propelled his content into virality.
'She started ticking,' he says. 'She said eff off, which is not uncommon in Tamworth, so I just thought it was a regular heckle.'
She explained and they had a laugh, and the interaction went viral. She came up after the gig and thanked him; she didn't normally feel comfortable going to shows.
'Then a bunch of other people with Tourette's started coming to my shows, and I ended up doing a fundraiser for them last year,' Kidgell says.
'That's the thing, people get so uncomfortable joking about it. [But people with Tourette's are] Like, as long as you're not being mean, and you're including us in it, it's great. So I think that has been maybe a bit of a point that has differentiated me in the sense that I don't go in on people – unless they deserve it.'
But he wants people to know he's no angel. In fact, it's the theme of his show Good Intentions, which he's touring Australia on the back of another stint in the US.
'People think I'm a way better bloke than I am,' he says. 'That's what my new show is about. It's about me telling people, like, I'm not actually that nice.'
Kidgell looks around and says he doesn't go to the Diamo pub that frequently any more. His friends refuse to come with him at weekends because he gets recognised too often, though he glances towards the pokies-playing pensioners this Tuesday lunchtime and reckons we're safe for now.
'We have the pub at home now,' he says. '[My partner] Meg got me a kegerator for Christmas. It's like a beer tap in a fridge, so now we just do it up the road.
'But the parmas aren't as good.'