Born in Glasgow in 1980, Susie McCabe began her career in standup comedy in the early 2010s, quickly gaining recognition on the Scottish comedy circuit. The 2024 winner of the Sir Billy Connolly Spirit of Glasgow award, McCabe has supported Kevin Bridges and John Bishop on tour and, along with Frankie Boyle and Christopher Macarthur-Boyd, hosts the podcast Here Comes the Guillotine. Her show, Femme Fatality, is on iPlayer now. She performs her new show Best Behaviour at Edinburgh fringe from 30 July to 24 August.
I’m three years old and in my late nana’s ground-floor tenement Glasgow flat. She would have knitted that tank top, and the toy in my hand was a little monkey that my mum bought me as a present. Apparently I used to be obsessed with putting its feet in its mouth – I’m sure a therapist could have a field day with that.
As for the expression, I look utterly miserable. My parents had tried to make me look like a sweet wee girl, putting me next to a little doll, when really I was a tomboy. That face is very much: “Nah, not having it.”
My nan’s flat was my happy place. She and I were best friends, for ever. She was an unassuming person who would show her love with food rather than words. An independent, non-judgmental woman with the heart of a lion, and, without doubt, the biggest influence in my life.
I knew very early on that I was different from the other girls. Everyone else did, too. Dad would ask: “Why won’t you just wear a dress? Why can’t you just stay clean? Why do you always have a football under your arm?” At school I was popular and had plenty of friends, but there were a couple of kids who tried to bully me a wee bit. All I’ll say is, I soon sorted that out.
When I was at primary school, my hair used to go all the way down my back. It was thick and Mum used to plait it every morning. The pain! I had a massive Tonka truck that I took into school one day, and while I was running it through my hair, strands got tangled in the wheels. We had no other choice but to cut huge clumps out of it, but I was so relieved – as well as the tomboy thing, long hair is difficult when you’re running about trying to play football with the boys, who are also trying to pull your plaits.
There was so much about my adolescence that was great – I loved to play football and rugby, and I had good teachers and friends. But I was also trying to deal with my sexuality. I was brought up Roman Catholic in the west of Scotland, during section 28. It was not a particularly easy time to come out. My mum and dad were not overtly homophobic, but there was not much information about the reality of being gay out there. The Brookside kiss was pretty monumental, but before that there were so many negative connotations about being gay in the media, just scandals about gay priests.
To deal with my sexuality, I smoked a lot of cannabis. Sport gave me a healthy outlet, thankfully. I also had good friends who supported me when I came out. When I told my parents, however, they put me out of the house, so I moved in with my nana. I stayed with her for two years and I worked in a jeans shop and then a gay bar.
In many ways, those were some of the happiest days in my life: being gay was still a backstreet thing in the 90s – there was no holding hands in public. In gay clubs, however, people would coalesce around you. Suddenly, I had a whole community of people who would look out for me. After about two years, my parents accepted that my sexuality wasn’t a phase. It wasn’t always easy, especially for my dad, but he got there in the end.
Growing up, I wanted to be a sports scientist and a physiotherapist. I told my parents this, and in true working-class Scottish style, they replied: “University is not for you.” Even though I had the intelligence to have gone, I don’t think I had the bandwidth to work hard as I was so caught up in having to come out. Instead, Dad made three other career suggestions. The first was: “Why don’t you be a police officer?” To which I replied: “Because snitches get stitches.” The next was: “Why don’t you join the air force like your brother?” My reply was: “Yeah, because I’m so good with authority.” Plus, this was 1998 – a time when homosexuals couldn’t even join the military. His third was: “Why don’t you be an air stewardess?” Wasn’t keen on that one, either. I am not a morning person. I’ve barely made myself a cup of tea by 6am, never mind making one for a plane full of people.
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Comedy was a dare that became a career. In the summer of 2010, when a friend was diagnosed with cancer, it was a stark reminder that time is short and I should challenge myself. A friend suggested I try comedy. Well, the exact phrase was, “Shitebag if you don’t.” When someone says that to you at school in Scotland, you absolutely have to do it, and, even in adulthood, I feel the same necessity. So, I signed up for an eight-week course and did my first gig. Right away I knew, this is the thing I am meant to do.
I was gigging for eight and half years, selling out solo shows and headlining clubs, when I eventually realised I was on the precipice and had to jump. Within a month of giving up my day job, I got signed to a comedy management company. I remember a year or so after, driving down the motorway and thinking: “I wonder what day it is?” I checked and it was Friday. I thought: “I’m living the dream.” When you work for a living you always know when it’s Friday and when it’s Monday. As a self-employed comedian, I was working seven days a week, with no days off, but it didn’t matter.
This industry is a marathon – very few people break into it overnight. Even if you find fame on TikTok, you still have to put in the work: the gigs, the grind, learning your stagecraft. I grew up playing football with men and spent years working in building sites alongside them. That experience, always being the only woman in the room, built my resilience and determination. Those early gigs could have been tough – miners’ clubs, bowling clubs, golf clubs – mostly rooms full of white, bald heads. At first, I knew they might see me as “other”: a wee gay woman with a mic. I also knew that, deep down, we weren’t all that different. Once I started talking, I could get them onside. The first two minutes might be rough, but if you speak your truth, the walls come down. There’s nothing really separating us.
While I am still that funny wee girl in the photo, there have been quite a lot of major life events recently that have made me feel like an adult. I had a heart attack on the way to the fringe last year, my wife and I separated, and my dad died in June. In life you get served curveballs, but I am very fortunate to be surrounded by decent people and living in a decent part of the world. Plus, it means my next show is going to be great.