We sat down for an exclusive interview with Celine Kuklowsky – a French/American comedian who can be seen across big stages in the UK (Angel, Top Secret, Komedia, The Stand Comedy Club) Los Angeles (Hollywood Improv) and Paris (Apollo Théâtre). They are currently writing and touring their debut comedy hour “Bed Boy” which will premiere at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026. You can find them and follow them on Instagram @celinekuk for updates and information about their upcoming tour.
This show runs at the Pleasance on 31st March as a WIP – Tickets here.
Bed Boy opens with the deceptively simple question: what is worth showing up for? How did that question evolve for you personally, especially while performing horizontally in a world that expects constant productivity and optimism?
I think we’re all expected to perform hyperproductivity and success under capitalism, and when you’re sick you can’t really do that. It’s a system that doesn’t work for so many of us and this show is in part about showing that: that this system doesn’t center people and their needs, and if you can’t make it work, it’s not your fault (also, girl same. You are not alone!)
At the same time, we live in a world where it’s so easy to tune out, to not show up, to be disconnected from each other, and in our own bubbles. I think this show wants people to look at that in themselves too—to resist the urge to isolate and actually choose togetherness and showing up for one another in the ways that you can. It’s the only way we’re going to make it through.
Performing the entire show from a bed is both a practical necessity and a powerful political image. At what point did you realise the bed wasn’t just a constraint, but the central metaphor of the show?
It’s my “emotional support bed.” I wanted to find a way to have my illness be onstage without making an entire hour about it. I have Multiple Sclerosis, and while I do talk about my illness because it’s part of my life, I didn’t want it to be the whole point of the show. A lot of us move through the world as sick people and I wanted the bed to be there as a symbol for that.
It’s also the thing that’s always lurking in the background for me—like my little ghost bed that’s haunting me, telling me to leave the world and come back to it. I’m someone who spends a lot of time in bed because of my fatigue and it is something that can either be quite enjoyable (the relief of having a bed to retreat to) or can feel so isolating and difficult (when I’m too unwell to get out of bed). This push and pull is something I explore in the show, but I think it applies to a lot of people. When you spend hours in bed, are you resting or hiding? Rotting or recovering? In this show I try to play with that resistance to and then giving into the bed. It’s very fun.
The piece draws an explicit parallel between bodies breaking down—yours, the audience’s, and the planet’s. How do you navigate making that connection funny without diminishing the very real fear and grief underneath it?
There’s a lot of comedy to be found in the universality of how shit the world is right now. I mean we’re all in it together, right? Laughing about it doesn’t diminish the fear or grief—it allows us to engage with it and maybe even change our relationship to it in a way.
Every time I get up on stage to talk about the big scary things—right now I’m writing a lot about what’s happening in my home country in America—I worry I’m going to ruin the vibe of the night. Like, this is supposed to be an escape! But I find over and over there’s a real relief, a kind of catharsis to being together in a room and laughing at the big horrible thing. It releases tension and makes you feel less alone.
Bed Boy skewers everything from party culture to capitalism to the rise of the far right. Do you see comedy here as an act of resistance, survival, or collective care—or all three at once?
All three at once definitely. Those things are all interconnected. The world we live in is trying to make us feel more disconnected and afraid of each other. This show is about telling us that we need each other and that the solution to all the big scary things lies in us getting closer, going out, building the muscle of togetherness on the dance floor and in the streets. Those things are connected in my mind.
There’s a striking tension in the show between vulnerability and provocation: chronic illness, aging, and fear sit alongside sharp jokes and an “entirely inappropriate” tone. How do you decide how far to push an audience before pulling them back in?
There’s something really interesting about joking about the things we try not to look at, like illness or aging. Writing this show has made me realize how much time I spend “masking” or performing that I’m not sick (in order to get the job, to make people feel more comfortable etc). I think we all mask to survive in this world. So there’s humor in pulling back the mask and showing the truth behind the performance–we get to watch what happens when a sick person tries to insist “the show must go on” even when their body isn’t on board. And if you find the right balance between humor and vulnerability you can bring people closer to you, and that’s where the gold is.
The show builds toward what you’ve described as a “surprise gay ending” and a rallying cry to fight for each other. When audiences leave Bed Boy, what do you most hope they feel—energised, comforted, unsettled, or ready to get out of bed and do something?
I hope people leave feeling connected to each other in the room but also in the world around them. I hope they leave with the desire to be more playful and irreverent in the world. And maybe a bit more rebellious. It’s all gonna end, we might as well have a good time and fuck shit up while we can.