Ahead of the Edinburgh Fringe, Pat Harrington interviewed Stuart Thomas about his show Bad Fatty.
1. What inspired you to create Bad Fatty?
Lots of things! I’ve always wanted to do my own show at Edinburgh, and I’ve been slowly edging toward it ever since I started a Trello board of joke ideas during lockdown.
During that same period, I took an online comedy course run by Sofie Hagen—an Edinburgh Comedy Award Best Newcomer winner. Sofie is a proud fat activist and a huge influence on my comedy. After lockdown, I was lucky enough to be invited to perform in a show with them called Sofie Hagen and Her Sexy Friends.
That night, I tried out a fairly new joke about being a Bad Fatty, and it went down really well. It felt like the idea had legs—and more importantly, like it could be the kind of strong, catchy title I could build my first show around.
2. The title Bad Fatty is pretty provocative. What does being a “bad fatty” mean to you?
I came across a piece that talked about how, within the fat acceptance community, there’s this unspoken divide between so-called “good fatties” and “bad fatties.” In simple terms, a good fatty is someone who’s actively trying to lose weight—apologising for their body, promising transformation, always striving to be smaller. A bad fatty, on the other hand, isn’t trying to shrink themselves. They’re just… existing. Eating in public without shame. Wearing what they want. Taking up space without permission.
And I thought—yeah, that’s me. I’m the “bad” kind. So instead of hiding from that label, I decided to grab it with both hands and run with it.
3. Can you share a fatphobic absurdity you’ve spun into comedy?
Of course! One of my favourite bits is about the people who genuinely believe that clothing brands shouldn’t make clothes for fat people—like that’s a valid stance. You’ll see them in comment sections or on daytime TV, ranting about how catering to larger bodies somehow “encourages obesity,” as if a pair of trousers has the power to ruin society.
But here’s what they never seem to consider: if you don’t make clothes for fat people… what exactly is the alternative? Because the only logical outcome of their argument is more nude fat people in public. And if that’s what they want, they should just say it. Honestly, it’s giving “We fear you, but we also want to see your arse at Tesco.”
I hope audiences realise that by laughing at these absurdities, maybe their assumptions about fat people aren’t all that true—and maybe they should at least question them.
4. How do you tackle diet culture in your act?
Open mocking, to be honest. That’s the most straightforward way to describe how I deal with diet culture—I can’t take it seriously, and I absolutely refuse to pretend I do.
To me, diet culture is one of the most absurd, joyless institutions we’ve built—worse than Good Morning Britain. It’s an entire industry designed to make you feel broken so it can sell you the illusion of being “fixed.”
When you strip away the branding and the buzzwords, it’s just capitalism with a side of lettuce. And that’s just funny.
5. Have you always been this confident joking about your body?
Not at all. For me, joking about being fat started as a defence mechanism. It was survival. You either make fun of yourself or get made fun of—and if I was the one telling the joke, at least I was holding the mic. That felt like power, even when everything else didn’t.
I was the opposite of confident growing up. I got bullied quite a bit—which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly shocking. I was a fat, queer, nerdy kid with glasses from a sheep farm. That’s basically catnip for a school bully.
But comedy changed a lot for me. It gave me a way to reshape the narrative—to say, “You don’t get to laugh at me unless I invite you in.” That, and a fair bit of therapy (though no prizes for guessing which is cheaper).
6. Sheep farm, working-class roots – how’d that shape Bad Fatty?
Farming was all I knew for the first 18 years of my life. The farm wasn’t just a home—it was a full-on lifestyle, a business, and a chaotic family whirlwind of hard work and sheep poo.
It shaped everything: my work ethic, my humour, my knowledge of obscure sheep breeds. Growing up working-class in that kind of environment meant you developed a thick skin early—especially when your mum’s version of body positivity was, “Eat up, that lamb is so fresh it was in that field this morning.”
For years, I swore I’d never do a job that blurred the lines between life and work. And now I do stand-up comedy—a job that is a lifestyle, is chaotic, and definitely doesn’t stop when you clock out. So… great job, Stuart. Nailed it.
But honestly? That upbringing taught me resilience, perspective, and how to find laughter even in the bleakest times. And all of that feeds directly into Bad Fatty.
7. How does bisexuality play into Bad Fatty?
I think my confidence around being fat and being bisexual have taken turns holding each other up—like they’ve been tag-teaming my self-worth. I only came out as bi during lockdown—late bloomer energy—but I’ve been fat for much longer, so I had a head start on learning how to exist outside of what’s considered “acceptable.”
There’s a real overlap in how both identities get treated. People erase you, question your legitimacy, or act like you owe them an explanation just for existing. So when I joke about being bi, it’s not just about sexuality—it’s about what it means to live in a body or identity that people constantly want to edit or shrink.
8. Fat, queer, Welsh, mentally ill—how does it all mesh on stage?
It’s like a big cultural lasagna: every layer’s a struggle, but it’s flavourful. It might surprise people just how much crossover there is between these identities.
Each one comes with its own stereotypes, social baggage, and survival strategies—and when you stack them, the overlap is wild. Fatphobia, queerphobia, classism, mental health stigma… they all come from the same joyless place that tells people they’re wrong for just existing as they are.
9. Mental health in comedy—how do you make depression funny?
In a way, I don’t think you make depression itself funny—you make the world around it funny. You zoom in on the absurdity of everything that comes with it: therapy sessions, coping mechanisms, awkward silences when you’re honest about how you’re feeling. And most of all, the way people react to it.
10. Any topics off-limits?
That’s not really for me to decide—that’s down to the audience. Society’s comfort levels shift over time, and it’s my job to spot that, work with it, and play around it.
That said, I do self-censor to a degree—but it’s purely a gut reaction.
And luckily, I’ve got a lot of gut to react with.
11. Most memorable audience reaction to Bad Fatty?
The reactions that always hit hardest for me are from other fat people. I want the show to feel like a kind of fool’s guide to fat acceptance, so when someone leaves saying they feel better about themselves—even after all the daft jokes—that’s incredibly rewarding.
12. Have people reached out to say Bad Fatty helped them?
One aspect that still surprises me is when non-fat people leave the show and say it gave them a new perspective—that they hadn’t realised what fat people go through.
See? Educational and knob gags. What’s not to love? Haha.
13. Have you encountered tough crowds or backlash for the show’s themes?
Honestly, I’ve been lucky. With a title like Bad Fatty, the audience tends to self-select.
That said, I did have one moment—in Brighton, of all places—when a guy in the front row shouted, “Yeah mate, just go to the gym, innit.”
Now, I’m not the kind of comic who immediately attacks hecklers. I try to keep it light until I’ve got a reason not to. So I looked at him and said, “Yes… or you could love your body.”
Cue applause.
I know that sounds a bit “Mr Big Head,” but that’s genuinely how it went. And moments like that remind me that the audience isn’t just laughing at the jokes—they’re backing the message behind them. And that’s just lovely.
14. Do you view your comedy as activism or storytelling?
Why not both? I’m not here to lecture—it’s a comedy show, after all—but I am here to expose the absurdity of systems that treat fatness like a crime and queerness like a phase.
If they leave googling “Is BMI nonsense?”—bonus.
15. Which performers inspire your approach to comedy?
So many! As I mentioned earlier, Sofie Hagen has been a massive influence. Also: Hannah Gadsby, Richard Pryor, Jo Brand, Rhod Gilbert, Bill Hicks (we all deserve a Bill Hicks phase).
And outside of comedy, gritty storytelling musicians like Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, and The Dubliners.
But honestly? It’s the everyday people—the friends, family, and strangers who get through life by laughing.
16. What’s your process for writing a show like Bad Fatty?
It started out as a kind of “greatest hits” of my club material—bits that had worked well, loosely tied together. But once I started writing toward a clear theme—fatness, shame, survival—it actually got easier.
When you’ve got the whole world to write about, it’s overwhelming. But having a subject gives you structure, focus, and something to push against. That’s where the good stuff lives.
17. How has the show evolved since the beginning?
In early work-in-progress versions, I realised some sections leaned too heavily into self-deprecation. It was veering toward “I’m fat and here’s an hour of me being mean to myself.”
Now, the tone is more “Fat person kicks ass and takes names.” There’s still self-awareness, but it comes from strength, not apology. And that shift has changed the whole feel of the show—for me and for the audience.
18. What does it mean to perform this show at Fringe?
Fringe can be amazing, beautiful, thrilling, and wild—but it can also be terrible, expensive, and exhausting. I look forward to it every year, and in some ways, I dread it.
It’s like riding a horse: go slow, be steady, and maybe practise a bit first.
This year, I’m doing a 45-minute show instead of the usual hour, and just a one-week run instead of a full month. So really, I’m probably riding a Shetland pony.
But I can’t wait—not just to perform Bad Fatty, or host my fat comedy showcase Chonk, but to see other shows, reconnect with friends, and hopefully come away from it all a better comedian.
19. For someone who’s never seen your comedy, how would you describe Bad Fatty?
A fat, queer, Welsh tour-de-force of a show that smashes diet culture, sexuality, and shame—all with sharp jokes and pure daftness.
20. The Takeaway?
To not only be a Bad Fatty—but to use being fat as an advantage.
The world is awful sometimes. And if you can’t change it, you might as well laugh and make the most of it.
You can find more details about the show here
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