King of Crumbs: Alasdair Beckett-King talks his Edinburgh return

“I’m working very hard on it—not to imply that it needs working hard on, ‘cause it all comes to me naturally!” Alasdair Beckett-King quipped during a lively chat with theQR.co.uk ahead of his Edinburgh Fringe run. Known for sharp, if sadly abbreviated, banter on Mock the Week, The News Quiz, 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown, and a freshly filmed Would I Lie to You, the comedian, writer, and the internet’s beloved “wizard guy” is bringing King of Crumbs to the Fringe.

This show, he promises, is a gleeful tumble into surrealism, a cheeky middle finger to the world’s relentless doomscroll.

Our chat begins accordingly! “I just realised with embarrassment, I’m using a Mock the Week mug. It’s just because I don’t have that many mugs!” Alasdair, if you didn’t know, was set to become a Mock the Week regular, only for the show to be cancelled. Fortunately, his mug has accompanied him into a bright and most amusing future.

A Spooky, Whimsical Spectacle Takes Shape

King of Crumbs is Beckett-King’s ode to “uplifting nonsense,” a deliberate sidestep from the political jabs of panel shows. He jests about the Fringe’s irresistable pull: “You forget after a while and start going, ‘Maybe it was okay. Maybe I enjoyed it,’” adding, “The body forgets pain, you know, otherwise nobody would ever have a second child.”

This cheery lens on the festival’s inevitable grind sets the tone for a show rooted in simple joys. The aesthetic stemmed from a compelling visual. “I had an image of Victorian séances, parlour magic, spiritualism, that sort of thing,” he shares, describing a poster of himself in a corduroy suit, answering a telephone for no reason other than it was there, flanked by impish sprites in the style of Golden Age magicians Maskelyne or David Devant. “All I’m hoping to communicate is a vibe,” he says, aiming for a “spooky, ghosty vibe,” though he chuckles, “the jokes are a law unto themselves.”

“I had an image of Victorian séances, parlour magic, spiritualism, that sort of thing…”

Alasdair Beckett-King

The title was a last-minute lark, prompted by a little PR agent pushing. “As usual, I come up with show titles in a massive rush when I have to name a preview for a new show,” he laughs. “I’m just finishing an old show, and then I had to come up with a title to say this is a work-in-progress show. So I came up with ‘King of Crumbs’ because it’s both self-aggrandising and lowering of your expectations. It implies that all the bits in the show are just crumbs—half-written ideas, things we write in the middle of the night on a notepad.” Those midnight scribbles have baked into a polished act, he assures. “Hopefully, if you’re lucky, around about this time of year, the vibes and the jokes start to fit together, and you realize, ‘Oh, this can do a callback into that, and that can feed into this thing,’ and it starts to feel like there’s a coherent show,” he says. Reader, this virtuous alchemy has been visited upon ‘King of Crumbs’, so if you saw it before, you can return, safe in the knowledge of its evolution,

Or, looking at things from ABK’s famously unique perspective, “It’s all a con trick, really—I just wanna try and make people laugh and then at the end of it, feel like it went somewhere.”

From Film School Flops to Comedy’s Embrace

Beckett-King’s comedy career was, you might say, an unexpected detour. “It was thrust upon me against my will,” he deadpans, recalling his late twenties. At the close of his time at film school in London, his graduation film would prove a turning point. “The tutors at the film school had a process where they’d screen the film in a theatre with other people, then you had to sit at the front and you weren’t allowed to speak—like a Soviet show trial. They’d give you feedback, and you’d just hear that and become better and improve as people, and leave: there was no dialogue to be had,” he says. “They absolutely hated it, and it was a real creative low point, a real knockback.” However, an open mic night offered salvation. “It had gone really well,” he recalls, describing it as “the tiniest glint of light” against filmmaking’s slammed door.

Stand-up duly started, initially as a tool to sharpen screenwriting, though an intended screenplay never quite materialised. “The good thing about comedy is it’s just that bit—it’s what you talk about, your ideas—and then you don’t have to follow it up with anything. You just leave,” he explains. But its thrill had him hooked. “It’s genuinely an enjoyable job being a comedian—so I ended up doing it more than I intended to,” he says, his tone playfully sheepish.

Comedy offered a masterclass in audience psychology. “It teaches you a lot about an audience’s patience, what keeps their attention, how you make them remember the things you want them to remember and not remember the things you want them to forget so you can surprise them,” he says. “You get really nervous if you haven’t made anybody laugh for more than a minute—or, to be honest, more than 30 seconds.” These lessons shape his work across mediums, from stage to screen to page.

Whimsy as a Comedic Lifeline

In a world drowning in crisis, King of Crumbs is Beckett-King’s playful rebellion. “Whimsy protects the imagination, creates space for joy, and reminds us that not everything has to be explained, defended, or debated,” so reads his press release.

With absurd yarns – like a tale about a biscuit – and tongue-in-cheek claims to “solve the moral and political crisis of our age,” the show promises humour with heart.”

It’s a comedic philosophy which shines through in our chat: “I’m always weaving truth and obvious whimsy and lies and things that are pretty close to the truth but not exactly the truth, in a way that I think is absolutely fine and legitimate for a comedian to do.”

But, in a departure from his usual material, this Fringe find him digging deeper into personal stories… “I’ve always had bits about my family in the show, but there’s a bit more of that in this show,” he says, mentioning anecdotes about his dad and granddad. “I’ve just ended up talking about these things against my will—there’s nothing I can do, the audience dictates.” That’s right folks, it’s your fault, and don’t you forget it!

Between these comedic musings, multimedia elements, tied to his film school roots, will continue to provide a playful spark. “I try to do it a bit like an album,” he says, “an inverse of how a comedian-musician will do a song, then talking, then a song. I don’t have the songs, so mine are a bit of stand-up—five minutes of stand-up, maybe a little cutaway to the screen, another five minutes of stand-up.” He loves the rhythm, and the practical benefits, “It breaks up the stand-up and gives me a chance to slightly look at my notes, especially if it’s the first night.”

“Whimsy protects the imagination, creates space for joy, and reminds us that not everything has to be explained, defended, or debated…”

Overall, Alasdair throws everything he’s got at whatever he does: “Every little thing that even resembles a talent, I end up throwing at the show, and hopefully some of them stick.” You’ll know if Alasdair ever takes up a musical instrument: it’ll be in his next show.

Wrestling the Fringe’s Madness

Beckett-King adores Edinburgh’s beauty but knows its chaos. “I really like being in Edinburgh. It’s a great city—obviously it’s the wrong time to visit ‘cause it’s full of English people, but it’s beautiful,” he jests, his tongue firmly in cheek. To stay grounded, he dives into chunky, escapist novels like Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness or Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth. “Something really dense and extremely far away from the Edinburgh Fringe and reality and comedy,” he says.

He once climbed Arthur’s Seat daily, but now quips, “I’m not sure my knees or heels can take that now, I’m an old geezer.” He even used to treat himself to smoothies at Black Medicine, “but I’m not sure I can handle that much sugar anymore.” One thing that won’t change, however, is his disinterest in the festival’s extracurricular drama, advising, “You do have to try not to get wrapped up in all the nutty politics of the Fringe ‘cause it doesn’t mean that much out of the bubble.”

Alasdair, like every act coming to Edinburgh this August, is also aware of the rising costs. “The last time was the first time I ever made any money out of doing it—by completely selling out the show and putting on extra dates,” he says.

Once upon a time, his partner would join him for a day or two, and the B&B would charge around £100 a night – the last time they tried, the going rate was £350. “There must be hotel rooms standing empty,” he says, “I’d rather have more people there paying less for their hotels than a smaller number of people paying more,” he says, half-joking, “full communism now to control rents in Edinburgh!”

He adds, “I think that so much Edinburgh being rented out by a small collection of mega companies that can effectively price control the rates, isn’t great.” The Free Fringe suffers, he notes, as high costs curb the spontaneous discovery that once defined the festival, lamenting how audiences no longer “wander around at 11:30 saying, ‘Should we just pop into this weird show that we’ve never heard of?’”

A Creative Constellation of Pursuits

Comedy has propelled ABK into an impressive array of projects, from viral sketches to computer games, and children’s books like Monty’s Magnificent Mane. However, it fell to the pandemic to boost his online fame. “I was lucky, I know many weren’t — we had that lockdown a few years ago, and I did quite well out of it,” he says, adding, “I knew how cameras worked, so I could do sketches that looked different to other people’s sketches.” Elsewhere, writing books offers acts of creation with a promise of closure.

“The lovely thing about writing a book is it’s done, it’s finished, people can read it, and it can be feedback,” he says. “Sometimes they like them, which is lovely, but it’s a complete piece of work that I can learn from and build on.” His pursuits—comedy, video games, publishing—intertwine. “I used to keep different things I was interested in separate, but I do think they all feed back into each other,” he reflects.

His network spans fascinating people. “I love the fact that I know some really interesting video game writers—if I had a question for people who make cool video games, I can just message them because they’re my friends,” he says, thrilled by the creative crosstalk. He’s dived in video game writing and podcasting, too. “When I started comedy, I was also writing video games a bit—writing for some indie games—and I was just graduating from film school,” he recalls. “These were all separate spheres. What I’ve realised is that interesting people exist in all spheres.”

His eclectic path isn’t the most lucrative, he admits with a grin: “Maybe the sensible thing to do is, like Mark Twain said, ‘Put all your eggs in one basket and watch that basket,’ but I’ve always just done whatever I was interested in. I probably could have made more money if I’d been sensible, but I’ve enjoyed it this way.”

The Fringe’s Ever-Changing Stage

With a two-week run, Beckett-King embraces pragmatism. “I never really enjoyed the final week, so I thought I’ll just not do it this time,” he says, alluding to the final week and the pressure of awards being announced whilst audiences begin to thin. He loves those audiences though—“some of the best and most comedy-savvy in the world”—and loves the chance to hone a show over multiple performances. “The best reason to go is to do the show rather than to achieve specific career aspirations,” he advises. He’ll seek out non-comedy shows, like a Welsh ghost story he once adored. “I love going to see something totally different,” he says. “One year I saw a ghost story—I saw one play, an Arthur Machen-like, a Welsh ghost story, I think—and I really enjoy seeing something which isn’t what I do.”

“I probably could have made more money if I’d been sensible, but I’ve enjoyed it this way.”

He doesn’t go to see other comedians, however, being prone to thinking “that’s great, I should do that!” even when it’s something completely different from his own. Well, it’s a wise man who knows himself that well!

Overall, the Fringe’s role has shifted, he muses. “From the moment I began going to the Fringe, it was dying,” he quips, whilst noting that ticket sales just kept on rising – at least until Covid struck. “I do think the centrality of the Fringe to the British comedy scene is less than it was,” he says, noting another lockdown revelation: “Then we had a year with no Edinburgh, and they managed to find the new people without the Fringe happening at all.” Still, its magic endures. “It’s an opportunity to do your show loads and loads of times in front of some of the best and most comedy-savvy audiences in the world,” he says, relishing the mix of “audiences from Europe and the UK, as well as some really confused tourists with shaky English and some Telegraph readers who’ve just come ‘cause they saw a review in the Telegraph and don’t really know what stand-up is.”

A Summons to Savor the Silly

King of Crumbs will likely find Beckett-King at his cheekiest, blending meticulous craft with devil-may-care charm, from biscuit tales (one presumes) to existential jests. It’s his call to dive into the absurd, and a breather from the world’s noise. Just don’t call it easy.

“I got a review a few years ago that said ‘effortlessly funny,’ and I was so angry that they didn’t realise how much effort it took, so now,” he says, “I intend for my comedy to really look like it must’ve taken effort.”

The result for this year’s Edinburgh Fringe?

“This is,” he winks, “‘effortfully funny’ stuff!”