New girl on the mountain: my week at Altitude Comedy Festival
Last week, I had the enormous privilege of performing at the Altitude Comedy Festival in Mayrhofen, Austria. A week of comedy and skiing in the Alps, surrounded by comedians I’ve watched on TV for years. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? It was. But also? Terrifying.
Before we even left Heathrow, I was so incredibly nervous. Imposter syndrome off the scale, y’know? I knew I’d be among pros so all I was initially hoping for was not to spill coffee on myself or accidentally address someone with way too much enthusiasm. I didn’t want to be the embarrassing newbie, the overeager fresher in a sixth form common room of cool kids.
So, I went on my own—many did. Some brought partners, some families, some mates. But many of us turned up solo, lugging suitcases full of nerves and ski gear. Not that I needed the latter. I don’t ski. I tried. Before I left the UK I had a three–hour lesson booked. I lasted 45 minutes. Turns out, falling over in front of strangers while strapped to sliding sticks isn’t my vibe. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t done the lesson. Maybe I would have been more open to trying it out there. Then again, maybe I would have plummeted off a cliff.
Still, it didn’t stop me from enjoying the mountains. I went up a couple of times, had lunch, drank wine, stared out at the views like a woman in a margarine advert. It was like being in a bubble. A snowy, surreal comedy bubble. I watched seasoned comedians back–to–back, gigged every night, and absorbed more in one week than I have in months.
If I had to describe it, I’d say it was comedy boot camp. You learn fast; you learn to stop apologising for being on stage; you learn to take the mic and own the space. Watching act after act made something click: stop hoping they’ll like you. Just be the act. It reminded me of teaching, actually—that transition from nervous trainee hoping the kids won’t eat you alive to experienced teacher who walks in and just owns the room.
But it wasn’t all confidence and enlightenment. I felt lonely at times. There’s something about being surrounded by seemingly extroverted, gregarious people that can make you feel smaller, quieter. But every single person I met was kind, welcoming, warm. No one made me feel unwelcome. In fact, they were the opposite—encouraging, generous, and inclusive.
It was intense, yes. But also unforgettable. I met amazing people, gigged a lot, laughed even more, and learned lessons I’m going to carry into every gig from here on out.
As I took my final walk down into Mayrhofen, past chocolate–box buildings and snow–dusted rooftops, I looked up at the Alps and thought, What a week. Then, out of curiosity, I checked my calendar. My next gig? A pub in the Midlands on Wednesday. And I smiled. The contrast couldn’t be greater—but that’s the job. From mountaintop to Midlands. Bubble to real life.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Thank you, Altitude Comedy Festival. It’s been an absolute bloody blast.
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Find out where I’m going to be performing soon.