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John‑Luke Roberts has always been one of the Fringe’s great experimenters — a comic who treats absurdity as both art form and philosophy. His new show, What I Talk About When I Run About Talking, takes that impulse and runs with it, literally and metaphorically. It’s part stand‑up, part linguistic labyrinth, part existential sprint. Roberts has built a reputation for turning nonsense into meaning and meaning into nonsense, often in the same breath.
We talked about mortality, mechanics, and the strange joy of chasing ideas until they collapse laughing.
Your show titles always feel like riddles, jokes, and philosophical puzzles at the same time. What unlocked this one for you?
Haruki Murakami wrote a book called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, and it’s a really good title, isn’t it? I think Murakami wrote it as a play on Raymond Carver’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Love, and must have thought, “That’s a really good title, I’m having that.” Anyway, I was playing around with it in my head and made myself laugh by saying, “What I Talk About When I Run About, Talking,” and then thought, “I’m having that.” When I started building a show that was more stand‑uppy and verbal than my other shows, I thought the title was a good fit. Once I attached it, I tried to make the show feel like the title.
You’ve built a reputation for bending comedy into strange shapes. Has there been a moment where you thought, “This might be too weird… even for me”?
That’s a really interesting question. I think the only thing that’s stopped me doing something is trying it out and it not getting a laugh. Once I’d dressed as my dead‑dad‑dressed‑as‑a‑vampire and performed naked as Mediaeval Poet Geoffrey Chaucer, I’ll give any stupid or weird idea a go. These days I’m more careful about emotional risks. I used to be quite devil‑may‑care about trauma‑dumping on stage or putting myself through unprocessed emotional stuff, and I’m very wary of that now.
Running and talking — two acts of escape. Did one inspire the other, or did they collide by accident?
They can be, but you can also run and talk in circles, which can feel like escape but actually trap you. I just took the title from Murakami and jiggled it, but as it happens the show is partly about escaping and trapping yourself.
You often smuggle big ideas into silly moments. What’s the idea you’re wrestling with this year?
I had a big health scare in November, so the show has a lot about mortality in it. Beyond that, it’s about identity and about words. I don’t want to over‑explain it, but I got some really helpful notes from Lara Ricote the other day, and we worked out it’s about identity and “the edges of things.” Hope that helps. But yes, also, it is silly.
Monkey Barrel has become a home for comics who like to experiment. What does that room give you that others don’t?
First and foremost, it gives me a decent split of the ticket sales. Beyond that, being at Monkey Barrel works as a stamp of approval for comedy audiences — it helps get people in because they think, “He must be all right, he’s on at Monkey Barrel.” I always feel looked after there; it’s run by people who really like and understand comedy.
How much of this show is meticulously planned, and how much is you letting chaos in through the side door?
This time round it’s pretty meticulously planned. Within each routine I give myself leeway to improvise or play around the theme. There’s no audience participation in this one, so chaos can’t really come in that way. But honestly, even when I did a lot of audience participation, I could be 95 percent sure of what they’d do anyway.
You’ve always been interested in the mechanics of comedy. What’s the new structural gamble you’re playing with?
Genuinely, it’s trying to do a straightforward conversational stand‑up show. I’ve had a rule for myself that whenever a tricksy ending or puzzle‑box structure offered itself up, I’d go the other way. I think I’ve done that, and I really like how the show plays.
Fringe audiences arrive exhausted, overwhelmed, or over‑stimulated. What do you hope they leave your show carrying?
I hope they leave energised, laughing, and thinking a bit. I hope the ideas ricochet around their heads for a while and intermingle with their own.
Comedy is changing — fast. What do you think live performance still does better than anything else?
Bringing people together and fostering human connection. I hope — and I think — that as generative AI starts poisoning all the digital wells, people will treasure the humanness and authenticity of live performance even more. Comedy is all about social bonding and laughing with other people, so the best place to watch it is in a room full of them.
What’s feeding your brain right now — books, music, obsessions — that’s quietly shaping the show?
I’ve been listening to a lot of Modest Mouse — a band you’d think I liked, but I’ve only just started. I’m watching a lot of stand‑up specials and finding exciting things in the form I hadn’t noticed before. I’ve been watching quite a few American specials and started thinking about them differently. Generally, a UK stand‑up hour has a unifying theme or story; a US hour is often a series of bits. I used to think, “Why can’t they put the work in to finish their shows?” but now I see them more like albums — a series of tracks that the audience draws associations between, or not. You can take an audience to a really satisfying place that way.
John‑Luke Roberts: What I Talk About When I Run About Talking 🎭 Monkey Barrel Comedy | Edinburgh Fringe 2026 🕐 Times vary | Buy tickets here
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