Farmer Jim
Ahead of two mainstage gigs at the Glasgow International Comedy Festival, Perthshire farmer and stand-up Jim Smith talks to Jay Richardson about juggling livestock and laughs
Jay Richardson interviews “teuchter” comedian Jim Smith ahead of his Glasgow International Comedy Festival gigs
Rounding a cattle shed, Jim Smith appears for our interview on his tractor. Snow is covering the surrounding hills but it’s bright and fresh, the Perth countryside rolling away below us. Squelching towards his house in Caputh, near Dunkeld, I’m greeted by Flossy, his frisky border collie and occasional co-star.
It’s a busy time for the reassuringly ruddy-cheeked livestock farmerturned-comedian. After his hour-long stand-up special aired at Hogmanay on the BBC, he’s capitalising with his biggest shows yet, a couple of Glasgow Comedy Festival dates at the King’s Theatre. And lambing season approaches – a three week period “when all hell breaks loose.”
While some comedians were belatedly finding their beds this morning, Smith was witnessing the birth of a calf, grateful he wasn’t required to assist. The 41-year-old’s own firstborn, with girlfriend Morag, arrives in July. Quite apart from anything else, this new arrival will dramatically change his material.
The perils of rural dating have long been a cornerstone of his sets, but now it’s fatherhood inspiring him. “I’ve been used to birthing sheep and cattle, so there’s obviously scope for comparisons” he ventures over a cup of tea. “Whether the maternity ward is like a lambing shed and all that. But Morag has gently reminded me that there will be women who’ve actually given birth in the audience and not to go into that too much.”
Seven years a comic, Smith’s farming roots go considerably deeper. He’s the third generation to have reared animals on these 300 acres but comes from a much longer line. For a part-timer, his rise in comedy has been rapid though. He might play with stereotypes of unworldly Teuchters, but Smith bestrides the internet like a welly booted colossus. Clips of his Farm Diaries and The Farm, a series of comedy shorts for the BBC iplayer in which he stars with Flossy and Scot Squad’s Chris Forbes, have garnered millions of views on social media and significantly raised his profile.
Until recently, his living was “mainly the farm and stand-up was a nice sideline.” But last year’s national tour, “for work and effort, made a fool of farming.
“I couldn’t tour every year. And the farm is sustainable,” he explains. “But I’m in a position now where if it’s a rainy day, I can just come inside and write. And I can afford to pay someone else to feed the sheep.”
Regardless of his stand-up success, he won’t quit his vocation, ingrained in him by his late father. “This morning we had this lovely new calf, the sun was out and there’s a wee hint of spring. I could never give it up, I love it too much. Yes, it drives you mad. And unfortunately, it doesn’t bring enough money in. But if I didn’t have stand-up I would have to diversify into something else anyway.”
Fortunately, the lifestyles have been surprisingly complementary. “I carry a notepad with me at all times,” he says. “Because when you’re feeding sheep, it can be quite mundane, so your mind just wanders. I’m always thinking of jokes and it’s nice to have the distraction.”
Growing up, he was inspired by the keenly observed, intentionally parochial humour of Colin Campbell’s Local Radio on BBC Scotland, the Caithness-born farmer’s characters foreshadowing his own gallery of eccentrics. “When I was at school, everyone was listening to Kurt Cobain. But I would sit up at night and listen to a cassette of Colin on my Walkman. He’s a huge influence.”
Billy Connolly was formative too. Yet, having spiced up Young Farmers’ Club pantos with gags, it was only after hearing Aberdeen’s Desperate Fishwives on the radio, “playing people I could relate to,” that he was emboldened to try five minutes of stand-up at the Glasgow Stand’s Red Raw night. Initially, some of his fellow comics thought he was a character act. “I used to say I was an accountant from Morningside,” he smiles.
When he’s performing for a rural audience, “I’ll maybe go into more technical stuff about tractors.
“But I always like to think I can entertain city folk just as much. The stuff that really works in Glasgow is the fact that I’m 40 miles from a nightclub and trying to get a girl home is a half hour taxi. They get all that.”
Blending a distinctive personal experience with big characters,
Smith has been displaying assurance in ever-larger rooms. He’s rarely ventured further south than Newcastle, yet gratifyingly he found his routines chiming with the punters there, particularly those from a country background. Once his child is old enough, he plans to take his stand-up to market throughout the UK, serving that largely underserved audience. That’s even as his stints on BBC Scotland’s topical panel show Breaking The News have nudged him towards developing more universal material.
Meanwhile, he and Forbes are pushing for The Farm to become a full television sitcom pilot. “Of course, it’s all filmed here, so that’s great, I don’t have to go anywhere” he grins. “Those five-minute episodes have trained us up for it. Hopefully we can plough on with that.”
Tea finished, it’s back to the day job. After proudly showing me his sixhour-old calf, he’s off to Aberfeldy to run his eye over a new bull. “The tackle? You have to make sure it all works properly,” he confirms. It’s no wonder big theatre audiences don’t faze him. ■
“If I didn’t have stand-up I would have to diversify into something else anyway”