“Truthfully, my body is absolutely wrecked because I have a very melancholic spine,” Elf Lyons admits. “She gives me so much hassle for all my shows.”
It is a characteristically candid admission from a performer whose work is defined by a rigorous, almost punishing dedication to physical theatre. The highly acclaimed, award-winning comedian—whose accolades include a Sky Arts Comedy Award 2025 win and an Edinburgh Comedy Award nomination—is celebrated (including by us) for her signature blend of clown, mime, and surreal theatre. But to watch Lyons on stage is to witness a human body pushed to the limits of absurdity: contorted into a swan, galloping as a horse, or escaping a horror movie. Behind the critical delirium and international wins lies a physical reality that makes her Soho Theatre run not just impressive, but defiant.
Lyons is returning to the Main Stage this winter with a repertoire that would exhaust a lesser performer. She is bringing four shows: the three-part The Bird Trilogy, followed by her award-winning hour, Horses.
The Physical Cost of Commitment
The demands of Lyons’ genre are unique in contemporary comedy. It is a tradition that requires the body of an acrobat and the stamina of an athlete, a reality that Lyons embraces even as she acknowledges its cost and her own physical struggles.
“My dad’s advice was ‘treat yourself like an athlete’,” she says, detailing her routine of joining a gym, swimming daily, and using the sauna. The discipline is necessary because, as she notes, “when it’s fringe, or a show run, I literally will try to sleep as long as is physically possible to make sure I have the energy.” She views this as a professional duty: “When people are spending money and getting babysitters to see your shows, you can’t afford to take their time for granted.”
She is transparent about the current toll that her demanding schedule has taken: “Arguably this year has been the most physically exhausting and mentally exhausting on my body and mind (for reasons that will be evident in my next show), so it has been much harder to find that balance.” This humanising honesty grounds the hyper-surrealism of her work, transforming the clown into a figure of athletic discipline and personal resilience.
“Truthfully, my body is absolutely wrecked because I have a very melancholic spine,” Elf Lyons admits. “She gives me so much hassle for all my shows.”
The Philosophy of the Subject
Lyons’ creation process begins not with a joke, but with an intellectual curiosity that determines the eventual form. “All my shows start with a concept or subject I find interesting, and then I extrapolate and go from there,” she explains.
This creative fluidity is essential to her ambitious project, The Bird Trilogy, which sees her rotating three high-concept hours: Swan (a ballet study), ChiffChaff (a musical about economics), and Raven (gothic horror). She notes that the approach to starting each show was entirely different:
“With Swan I picked Swan Lake and started from a simple re-enactment process and went from there… adding, experimenting and combining theatrical techniques as I went. For Chiffchaff, I picked the subject, Economics and the form, Musicals – and decided to experiment and see what I discovered in the process and for Raven I knew that I wanted to make the audience FEEL rage and the same catharsis the final girl feels at the end of a horror film, and so that is what I worked towards creating.”
This genre-hopping is justified by a desire to share specialist, complex interests with an audience. “I think we learn more about people through what they love, and we connect with them more through their specialist interests,” she says. “And that sharing of joy is a beautiful state to collectively be in as a performer and audience, and means you can build trust to take them to more dynamic emotional places.”
Crucially, even in moments of personal vulnerability or subject passion, the focus remains firmly external. “Choosing to reveal information about yourself must always be in the benefit of the audience, helping them with THEIR life, and if I don’t feel like divulging information about me helps that, then I don’t do it.”
The Horse That Started in a Studio
Following the avian chaos comes the main event of the winter season: Horses (7–10 January 2026). The show, which secured the Sky Arts Comedy Award, was hailed as “genius” by The Telegraph and is billed as the first-ever comedy show performed entirely by a horse, Treacle.
The journey from a passing gag to a full-scale production was driven by sheer force of will. “Horses started, apparently, as a horse joke that got out of hand,” she recalls. “Essentially, the moment I said it out loud, it was going to be a full show. Once I say ‘I am going to do this’, I do it. Once it is written down and out there, you have to deliver.”
The commitment was immediate and practical: “Once I vocalised that I wanted to be a horse, I hired a studio, booked some WIPS and just got on with it.”
The resulting show is a playful, inventive hour about the joy of pretending—a theme rooted in her own history. “I used to spend all my time pretending to be a mum,” she says. The concept of make-believe served a necessary purpose: “And because I was so dyslexic I used to spend a lot of time pretending I could read.”
That commitment to the bit extends to her physical craft, particularly her mime work. Lyons rejects technical perfection in favour of belief and precision. When asked about her secret to compelling mime, she offers practical advice that underscores her focus on belief:
“Don’t worry about what is ‘correct’ mime—think about the language of your body rather than trying to emulate other people’s style. Take your time, make sure you see it, be precise and enjoy the transition from one state to the next. If I don’t believe it, the audience won’t either.”
“…for Raven I knew that I wanted to make the audience FEEL rage and the same catharsis the final girl feels at the end of a horror film, and so that is what I worked towards creating.”
The upcoming Soho Theatre run is a triumph of conviction over physical constraint. The physical toll of the stage is secondary to the duty to connect, making the relationship with the audience the central anchor of her work.
“It is categorically the most important thing. It is also the hardest relationship to have—because you really cannot let them see you struggle mentally or emotionally if the show is struggling and you can’t blame them,” she concludes. “It is impossible to not sometimes let this slip, but you must still try.”
And as for whether her fascination with the animal kingdom—be it bird or equine—is merely a phase for this cult clown?
“Always.”
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