Interview: Susan Calman, comedian

Calman is a terrific comic, and one of the few I can think of who wholly inhabits her comedy. She doesn't "do" it, she "is" it. So I always felt my image of her was complete, albeit all I really knew was that she is clever, warm, cute and very funny. That is my excuse and I am sticking to it.

The whole evening is getting off to a difficult start, it has to be said. We are in Edinburgh's New Town Bar, all flattering lighting and show tunes. The last time we met there I was in the stocks and Calman was pelting me (with not a little enthusiasm, I remember thinking) with enormous sponges soaked in ice-cold water.

"Wasn't that... fun," we remember. Now Calman is the one helplessly pinioned - not in the stocks, but by her whirlwind of a PR who juggles handbag, two phones and one comic, and manages to create a set-up for the photographer using a corner, a sofa and a copy of last week's Scotland on Sunday.

"What about hair and make-up?" I cry. "I am wearing make-up," says Susan with what would be a killer stare were it not for the fact she has the eyes of a friendly Jack Russell and they don't do killer stares.

The PR texts with one hand and e-mails with the other while telling me that Susan's show this year is "f***ing brilliant", that she is also doing a chat show and that she is still being Fred McAulay's right-hand woman (and, from time to time, even being Fred McAulay) on BBC Radio Scotland.

Now we are getting clever with a mirror, doing a variation of the Harry Worth shot in the shop doorway. The photographer, the PR and I are looking critically down the length of the wall at an image comprised of half of Calman's smiliest face, completed by its own reflection.

Funny to think that this pocket-sized woman with the face of a Just William character, who at 35 is still asked for ID when she buys drinks, was until a very few years ago one of Scotland's Top 30 Lawyers Under 30, earning a six-figure salary and cutting through the world of corporate law like Dynarod through a drain blockage.

I use the simile advisedly. She won the Brennan Scholarship at Glasgow University, spent six months working with inmates on Death Row in Carolina and, latterly, became a specialist in Freedom of Information and data protection cases. But she became increasingly aware that this wasn't what she wanted to do. She had, she says, always been "an entertainer", for family, friends and colleagues. Growing up as a 1980s Glaswegian, 4ft 11in and lesbian, you also need something to keep the bigots and the bullies from the door. She came out to family and friends very early and was always very open about her sexuality.

The main problems she had, she says, came when she went into law and heard the minds of many in the profession shut behind her. Increasingly she felt that this was not where she wanted to be.

She had been playing the comedy circuit to mounting applause for about a year, and was finding the two worlds more and more difficult to keep apart. "I was always terrified I'd see one of my clients in the audience," she says. When she reached 30, she reckoned it was time to sum up, put her last set of briefs on the "out" pile and take her chances where the verdicts are even less predictable.

She sold her flat, moved in with her partner (also a lawyer), paid off her car and made sure she had enough money to last her a good long while in her new career. The hardest thing was breaking the news to her parents.

"They'd paid for my education!" But Sir Kenneth and Lady Anne were totally understanding about it. That'll be Sir Kenneth Calman of the Calman Commission, Chief Medical Health Officer for Scotland and England, and Chancellor of Glasgow University. "I think," says Kenny Calman's wee girl, as she used to be referred to by certain members of the Scottish Law Society, "they just want me to be happy."

And happy she is. The first comedy club she ever went to was on the night she performed her first spot. Her education in female performance comedy had come via Victoria Wood and French and Saunders, and from the beginning she was always an anecdotal, observational, life-as-comedy performer. Taking more from the grapevine than Tim Vine, as it were.

"Here's the thing," she says, prodding a forefinger on the table. "I don't ever want to be 'fine'. Or 'nice'. That would be the worst thing anyone could say about my comedy." Unfortunately, it is just at this point that the friendly Glaswegian sitting at the bar swivels round to tell Calman that she is "quite funny", followed by "all right". While I rush to the bar for more beer, he explains that that is the highest accolade anyone can expect from a Glaswegian.

By the time I have returned, there is a bloke with a schedule confirming a gig here at the bar that Calman didn't even know she had. But she likes it here, so she confirms without demur. She is the kind of performer that people feel invested in and, I think, the kind who will never let the interest on that investment fall.

"Y'know Locard's Exchange Principle?" she demands. I smirk. Of course I do. One of the basic tenets of forensic science, Locard's Theory, as it is otherwise known, suggests that wherever there is a meeting of two objects, there will be an exchange – ie, each will leave some sort of a trace on the other. Look, you've seen CSI? Without Locard, they'd be out of a job.

"I want my comedy to leave a mark on my audiences," says Calman. "I think there should be something different about them when they leave from when they came in." That is, it strikes me, one of the simplest yet most profound and perfectly defined comedy mission statements I have heard.

This is, I think, (clich alert!) Susan Calman's year. Her stand-up is maturing and evolving, she is on radio, TV, she has a partner she adores (she wears a wedding ring but I have been asked to say no more) and she is increasingly finding herself in contention for some serious dramatic roles (although she'd never leave stand-up behind).

"I look at my live audiences now and I can see there's a quarter who know me from Radio Scotland, a quarter who know me from The Stand, a quarter are TV fans and a quarter are lesbians.

"I love that. I love that these people would never meet under other circumstances. And here they are laughing at the same things, having a drink together. I should get some kind of grant for that!" Let's think... what could Edinburgh comedy award Susan Calman for her excellent work? We'll see.

• Susan Calman: Constantly Seeking Susan is at the Underbelly, 8.10pm, until 29 August

A version of this article first appeared in the August 8 edition of Scotland on Sunday. The main problems she had, she says, came when she went into law and heard the minds of many in the profession shut behind her. Increasingly she felt that this was not where she wanted to be.

She had been playing the comedy circuit to mounting applause for about a year, and was finding the two worlds more and more difficult to keep apart. "I was always terrified I'd see one of my clients in the audience," she says. When she reached 30, she reckoned it was time to sum up, put her last set of briefs on the "out" pile and take her chances where the verdicts are even less predictable.

She sold her flat, moved in with her partner (also a lawyer), paid off her car and made sure she had enough money to last her a good long while in her new career. The hardest thing was breaking the news to her parents. "They'd paid for my education!" But Sir Kenneth and Lady Anne were totally understanding about it. That'll be Sir Kenneth Calman of the Calman Commission, Chief Medical Health Officer for Scotland and England, and Chancellor of Glasgow University. "I think," says Kenny Calman's wee girl, as she used to be referred to by certain members of the Scottish Law Society, "they just want me to be happy."

And happy she is. The first comedy club she ever went to was on the night she performed her first spot. Her education in female performance comedy had come via Victoria Wood and French and Saunders, and from the beginning she was always an anecdotal, observational, life-as-comedy performer. Taking more from the grapevine than Tim Vine, as it were.

"Here's the thing," she says, prodding a forefinger on the table. "I don't ever want to be ‘fine'. Or ‘nice'. That would be the worst thing anyone could say about my comedy." Unfortunately, it is just at this point that the friendly Glaswegian sitting at the bar swivels round to tell Calman that she is "quite funny", followed by "all right". While I rush to the bar for more beer, he explains that that is the highest accolade anyone can expect from a Glaswegian.

By the time I have returned, there is a bloke with a schedule confirming a gig here at the bar that Calman didn't even know she had. But she likes it here, so she confirms without demur. She is the kind of performer that people feel invested in and, I think, the kind who will never let the interest on that investment fall.

"Y'know Locard's Exchange Principle?" she demands. I smirk. Of course I do. One of the basic tenets of forensic science, Locard's Theory, as it is otherwise known, suggests that wherever there is a meeting of two objects, there will be an exchange - ie, each will leave some sort of a trace on the other. Look, you've seen CSI? Without Locard, they'd be out of a job.

"I want my comedy to leave a mark on my audiences," says Calman. "I think there should be something different about them when they leave from when they came in." That is, it strikes me, one of the simplest yet most profound and perfectly defined comedy mission statements I have heard.

This is, I think, (clich alert!) Susan Calman's year. Her stand-up is maturing and evolving, she is on radio, TV, she has a partner she adores (she wears a wedding ring but I have been asked to say no more) and she is increasingly finding herself in contention for some serious dramatic roles (although she'd never leave stand-up behind).

"I look at my live audiences now and I can see there's a quarter who know me from Radio Scotland, a quarter who know me from The Stand, a quarter are TV fans and a quarter are lesbians.

"I love that. I love that these people would never meet under other circumstances. And here they are laughing at the same things, having a drink together. I should get some kind of grant for that!" Let's think... what could Edinburgh comedy award Susan Calman for her excellent work? We'll see. v

Susan Calman: Constantly Seeking Susan is at the Underbelly, 8.10pm, until 29 August