Talking Funny with Schalk Bezuidenhout

From travel mishaps and unlikely strip-club gigs to lawn bowls victories and a mother who built a museum as a legacy to her son, comedian Schalk Bezuidenhout’s world is anything but ordinary.

Ahead of his show at the Savoy Theatre in Gqeberha, he speaks about his career turns, comedic rhythm, influences and heroes.

Q: Has your life been different than what you’d have imagined?

A: Completely. I pictured Hollywood and Oscar‑winning films. That didn’t happen, and I’m fine with it.

I’m very happy in SA, and though I never imagined a stand‑up career, I can’t picture my life without it now.

Q: What’s the hardest you’ve ever worked?

A: When I was younger, I loved the idea of earning in the day and at night.

Shooting a TV show meant being on set by 5.30am, gigs in the evening, bed at midnight, and back up at 5am.

I don’t do that anymore. If I’m on a TV project, I leave stand‑up for later — that stretch was definitely the hardest I’ve ever worked.

Q: If you could do it all over again, would you pursue the same career?

A: Absolutely. I’d just start earlier.

Q: What’s the career highlight you’re most proud of?

A: Opening for Trevor Noah at the Teatro at Montecasino for a month still stands out.

Living in a hotel, strolling 100m to the theatre every night, doing 10 minutes, then watching Trevor — it felt magical.

I’ve done bigger venues since, but that’s still a favourite.

Q: Does writing comedy become more difficult over time?

A: Yes. With every show you tick off more topics, so you eventually run out of easy ones.

Then you have to dig into real life to keep it fresh.

Q: Have you ever had an experience you would describe as an adventure?

A: Bungee jumping qualifies. I hated every second and will never do it again.

It was terrifying. My life flashed before my eyes.

Q: What was your worst travel experience?

A: In the Philippines with a stomach bug.

Tiny port, men’s bathroom with no toilet paper, me raiding the women’s and sprinting back. Then sitting on a ferry with a clogged toilet.

Q: What is something people would be surprised to learn about you?

A: I’m an avid lawn bowls player. People think it’s a gimmick, but I’m genuinely serious about it and actually pretty good.

Q: Who are your heroes?

A: Casper de Vries. He’s a South African comedy legend like no other, and I’m not sure any comedian will ever make me laugh as hard.

Jim Carrey was my childhood idol. I wanted to be that elastic‑faced guy who could turn chaos into a character, and I loved how he never did anything halfway, he always went full weird.

That gave me permission to be big, physical and a little unhinged on stage.

Later, seeing him talk openly about depression and the cost of always being “on” reminded me the clown and the person aren’t always the same.

I guard my quieter off‑stage self carefully.

Q: Your mom is a recurring character in your comedy. What’s she like in real life?

A: She’s fiercely proud and completely unfiltered. She’s turned one room into a mini Schalk museum — posters, paintings, a statue, my Golden Horn.

She’s also the voice in my head asking why I don’t have kids or what I’m doing with my life.

My Afrikaans mom jokes are basically love letters to her.

Q: What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?

A: Doing an advert dressed as a giant tooth on the side of the road.

It was just as people started recognising me, so drivers would shout, “Hey, Schalk!” while I stood there in this massive tooth costume.

Q: Describe your perfect holiday.

A: Right now, with a lot of work on the go, my perfect holiday is staying at home with my dogs, on the couch, binge‑watching series.

Q: What is your fondest childhood memory?

A: Going to the zoo with my dad. He’d sit reading a newspaper and tell me to meet him back there in an hour, while I ran around looking at animals.

Then I’d come back for ice-cream. Looking back, it was wildly unsafe, but wonderful.

Either stranger danger wasn’t a thing then, or my dad thought I was too ugly to kidnap.

Q: How did growing up in Kempton Park shape you?

A: Kempton Park is the kind of place you thank in your Oscar speech as your “humble beginnings”.

It’s big, but has a small‑town mentality. Afrikaans was the default, English was for self‑defence.

I was a flamboyant, very animated kid in that world, and that made me stand out in ways that weren’t always fun.

Over time, I went from conservative Afrikaans caterpillar to dramatic butterfly with moustache and afro.

Q: You’ve said you disguise your struggles with jokes. How much of your comedy is coping?

A: A lot. Growing up being different, jokes were how I survived school, church and family expectations.

There have been proper low points, awful gigs, failed auditions, watching other people’s lives look sorted while mine looked like one long gap-year with a moustache.

Turning those moments into bits makes them feel like they happened for a reason.

Q: You call yourself an old soul. How does that show up in your life?

A: Mainly that I play competitive lawn bowls at a retirement village.

I’m decades younger than everyone else at my club. I even won the Men’s Novice Champion trophy, which my mom had to collect because I was on tour.

Q: You ran the Comrades Marathon. How did that happen?

A: I just decided to do it. My training plan would horrify most coaches.

My longest run beforehand was a standard marathon, so from halfway I was in unknown territory.

I skipped strength work and fancy gels and mostly just ran hills whenever tour schedules allowed, including long runs in Australia when everyone at home was asleep.

Q: How did you end up with your own pinotage?

A: It started with wine‑and‑Coke “katemba” at Kempton Park house parties, then free wine tastings in Cape Town when we had no money.

Eventually I worked up to ordering a Beyerskloof pinotage on a date and felt like royalty.

My bottle, “Feeling Good Feeling Positive”, has a back label that basically admits I know nothing about wine except that I love it.

It’s meant to be unpretentious and affordable.

Q: What’s the worst gig you’ve ever done?

A: The Friday‑afternoon strip‑club buffet gig remains undefeated.

Being introduced after strippers at a braai buffet, with fluorescent lights, wedding‑ring tans and my dad in the audience eating from the buffet, felt like all my life choices converging at once.