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A lot has changed since Rhod Gilbert began touring The Book of John in 2019 – a tour that still hasn’t come to an end. First it was interrupted by a pandemic. You may have heard about that. Then, in 2022, Gilbert had to pause the tour again with a persistent unexplained throat problem. Trekking Cuba to raise money for the Velindre Cancer Centre in Cardiff, of which he is a longstanding patron, Gilbert discovered the problem was in fact cancer – for which he has been in treatment, at Velindre, since. “I’m sitting there having chemo,” he tells me, “with a picture of me on the wall as a fundraising patron. You couldn’t make it up, honestly.”
The tone of voice, via Zoom from Wales, is recognisable to anyone familiar with the 54-year-old’s standup. Escalating dismay is the keynote. On stage, it ascends to a full-blown rant and stays there. Or it used to. “It’s softened a bit now,” says Gilbert. That’s just as well: Gilbert needs to look after himself. This is his first national newspaper interview since his stage-four cancer diagnosis in July, as he recovers from surgery, radiotherapy and chemotherapy. “It does feel weird,” he admits. “I don’t know how much to talk about the cancer. I haven’t really worked out what to say. I’m more than happy to talk about it but I haven’t had time to process it at all.”
He’s emerged from his convalescence (“Some days I’m well enough to potter and other days, or whole weeks, I’m in bed”) to discuss the digital and DVD release of The Book of John. The show marked a departure for the Carmarthen man and a career peak (give or take 2008’s for-the-ages Rhod Gilbert and the Award-Winning Mince Pie). After years confronting life’s milder irritants – service stations, baked potatoes, the tog rating of duvets – with apoplectic fury, he returned after a seven-year hiatus with a show which discusses matters of very considerable significance: bereavement; a recent mini-stroke; difficulties conceiving a child with his wife, the comedy writer Sian Harries. Over-heatedness was still Gilbert’s stock in trade but now he had everything to be overheated about.
What’s remarkable about the show is Gilbert’s candour and, despite charting territory he had not previously gone near in 20 years of standup, how funny he makes it all. That’s partly because his mouse-that-roared shtick, however “softened”, remains hilarious. It’s also down to John. John was Gilbert’s chauffeur throughout the period the show records because, after his mini-stroke, the comic wasn’t allowed to drive. Always on hand with some choice idiocy as Gilbert’s life collapses around him, John’s dimwit conversation is the grease that oils the show’s wheels.
John is, I venture, a bulletproof device for bringing levity to heavyweight material. “Device? What!” responds Gilbert, and I worry that, with my barely concealed scepticism as to whether John actually exists, I’ve triggered another rant. But no: there’s a twinkle in Gilbert’s eye. “Until this show,” he says, “all my standup was made up. I think pretty much everything was entirely fictitious. And in this show, it’s not. It’s all true stuff that happened: the stroke, my mum’s Alzheimer’s, the fertility treatment. And John does exist. I did hire a driver for that year. But yes, there’s some comedic licence taken with our arguments.” He pauses. “To say any more than that would spoil it, wouldn’t it?”
The Book of John wasn’t the first time Gilbert publicly addressed male infertility. With shows such as Rhod Gilbert’s Work Experience and Rhod Gilbert’s Growing Pains, many will know the Welshman more as a TV presenter than a standup, and in that role he fronted two intimate and autobiographical BBC documentaries, in 2018 and 2021, on social anxiety and infertility. They made a big impact – and they also changed the direction of his career.
With his 2012 live show The Man With the Flaming Battenberg Tattoo, Gilbert had felt his standup running aground. “I was having to look for things to be angry about, to fit what I did,” he says. “And that’s diminishing returns, clearly. I felt that, and I think audiences felt that.” When that tour ended, he announced he was quitting live comedy. And for seven years, “I didn’t miss it at all. Didn’t write a word. Not motivated in any way to do it.”
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But the experience of making those documentaries, and all that other “life stuff” he was dealing with, opened Gilbert up to a new way of working. A man who had only ever lied on stage began telling the unvarnished truth. A man with extreme social anxiety started talking to strangers about his most intimate experiences. “As I got older, I started to feel – and maybe this is a bit wanky – that I’ve got a bit of a platform here. And I should be doing more with it than just talking about toothbrushes.” More than that, though, he adds: “I have definitely become somebody who wants to be really open and talk about stuff, and who sees the value in talking.” It’s the same with his cancer today, he says.
“Pretty much, there used to be two reactions to my comedy,” says Gilbert. “You’re funny or you’re not.” Whereas now I get letters and emails from all over the world from people talking about their own experience of a stroke, or their parents’ Alzheimer’s, or infertility. It’s a totally different response. And I really like it.” Off stage, says Gilbert, “years ago, if I’d gone for a walk down the beach with the dog, I’d have kept my head down and not engaged with anybody. Whereas now, if somebody stops me, I’ll end up in an hour’s chat about infertility, cancer, whatever. The most intimate conversations.” It’s a turnaround – and an unusual role for a comic. I tell Gilbert I can’t imagine Jimmy Carr having heart-to-hearts on the beach. He replies: “I can’t imagine Jimmy Carr on a beach, to be honest.”
So committed is Gilbert to his new, no-filter way of being, he’s already hatching plans for the standup show that addresses his cancer experiences. “If I get through this,” he says, and then breaks off. “I’ve got to stop saying that. People tell me off. When you’re going through cancer, any sign of doubt or negativity gets nipped in the bud very quickly.” And so he restarts: “When I get through this, the next show will be in a similar vein. The cancer is on my mind 24/7, but when I’m well enough to write, I’m jotting down a few things. And there is humour in there, definitely.”
This conviction represents another about-turn from Gilbert, who used to doubt he’d ever write another standup show. “Every Edinburgh I was like, ‘How on earth am I going to write another show next year? How am I going to write even another five minutes?’ Whereas now I’m mad keen. I’ve got a 250-page document of stuff that’s on the go.” Don’t rule out a comeback for the offstage star of The Book of John, either. “The response to John is just insane,” says Gilbert. “People waiting backstage asking, ‘Is John here?’ He’s like a folk hero! He is more popular than I am!”
All of which gives Gilbert something to focus on as he navigates a challenging period. “All my work has gone. My social life has gone. Everything has gone. Everything. It’s just me and this bloody cancer, really.” The postponed final seven gigs of The Book of John tour are scheduled for 2023: “Having them is something to look forward to, really. But I’m making things sound very gloomy, and they’re not.”
Today, he has been cheered by the fact that his standup pals – Rob Brydon, Greg Davies and others – are rallying to his aid, hyping The Book of John’s release on social media and beyond, because Gilbert isn’t well enough to do so himself. “I’m really aware of mental health now,” he says, “and I’m checking in with myself every day. I feel fine, weirdly. I’m happy, optimistic and hopeful that next year it’ll all come good.”
