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Alpi Firari –

When a Turkish person first visits East London, their astonishment is hard to hide. Walking among Victorian houses, it’s a shock to suddenly encounter local men casually drinking tea and smoking outside a café. Honestly, I’m used to kebab shops, but when I saw an Ev-Kur, I whipped out my phone and posted it on Instagram.
(Yes, I confess, I’m one of those people.)

Discovering a Turkish comedy community in London is just as surprising. Sure, you might think there are some amateurs ready to do stand-up. But who’s going to buy tickets to watch them? It’s wild! However, I did some Googling for you: there are at least 450,000 Turkish speakers in London. So, if each event sells tickets to just 50 people…
(No, I’m not one of those calculating types. Not that extreme.)

The Turkish-speaking communities in London are as diverse as in Anatolia. Starting with Cypriots, Alevis, and Kurds, then branching out to white-collar workers, millennials, followers of FETÖ, and AKP supporters—the spectrum is vast. At first, I felt like a tourist among the millennial wing of this spectrum. Until I experienced the struggles of diaspora life and saw things from a different angle. The warm tones of red tiles and the chirping of birds faded during that first winter.
(You know, just the struggles of being away from home.)

There’s a global term for the experience of being in diaspora. It’s called ‘diaspora,’ meaning ‘scattered around’ or ‘displaced.’ Will this stylish-sounding word provide a remedy for my persistent feelings of disconnection? What’s my place in this diaspora, built by a generation that sought refuge from various human rights abuses?

With my millennial woes, I’m not just a scatterer in this community; I’m more of a drifter. My diaspora isn’t painful; it’s more of a lemony experience. A bit sweet, a bit lemony…
(Oops.) —

The number one need of a millennial drifter is to have a well to shout their unspeakable troubles into. Chosen families and close friends on Instagram are the primary support networks for drifters. However, life tends to push chosen family members apart. Soon, troubles deepen to a level that can’t be contained on Instagram. The drifter is in dire need of a new well.

This is where my path crossed with the Lemonade Comedy Club at just the right moment. I’m not particularly good at storytelling to strangers, but to be honest, I can be a bit of an attention seeker. I love the dust of the stage and the feel of the microphone. The thrill of being up there keeps me alive. For me, merging with others through the magic of the stage is the highest art after life itself. Instead of our troubles echoing in wells, let our laughter resonate in the halls.
(Long live stages and those who support them!)

As you know, the Turkish stand-up scene stepped into a new era post-2020. The inflationary economy of recent years has significantly increased the number of drifters, not just in terms of market prices. We’re realizing we’re not unique as misled millennials. Could my meeting with Lemonade at this moment be a coincidence? Just asking.
(After all, timing is everything in comedy!)

Ersah Kahraman

We were at a friend’s baby birthday party when my phone rang. “Why is Yunus calling me now? It’s not a holiday,” I thought to myself.
“Hello, my dear?”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Good, how about you?”
“Good. Listen, you’re going on stage in a month; I started a stand-up club.”
“What does that mean? Is it really that easy to start a comedy club?”
“Yep. I even came up with a name: Lemonade Comedy Club! How does that sound?”
“Did you really name it Lemonade because Cem Yılmaz came from Leman Culture?”
“What? What are you talking about?”

Since Yunus is about ten years younger than me, I thought about explaining how Leman Culture got its name from the magazine Leman, which was originally called Limon. When the cartoonists had a disagreement, a group split off to form Leman. But then I thought, why ruin the kid’s excitement?
“Great job! I’m all set. Always ready.”

And that “always ready” isn’t just a joke. I performed my first stand-up show when I was 14, in the school theater, in front of some classmates and a few teachers. I still remember it clearly. I wore those baggy pants that are trendy with kids who listen to rap now—huge, camo-colored pants, a black t-shirt, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt over it. I set up two black stands as a backdrop and taped papers with the names of great comedians I admired on them. The show went okay, except for the part where I impersonated Süleyman Demirel. After it went well, I repeated the same show for the same audience, inviting other teachers. I thought to myself, “You can’t tell the same joke twice; you have to add something extra.”

Since I had seen Ferhan Sensoy’s “Ferhangi Şeyler” live at age ten, I thought of the current events jokes that greats like him would make by reading newspapers. So, for the second show, I cut out interesting stories from the daily Hürriyet that my dad brought home every evening and added them to my stories. One article was about a woman insuring her breasts. When I made a joke about it—thinking it was funny—our conservative teacher, Emine Hoca, stormed out. As a seasoned comedian, I thought I should throw a dig at her as she left, but I caught the eye of the vice principal, Selman Bey, who gestured with his eyebrows, “Don’t do it.” So, I didn’t. What else could I do? After that, Emine Hoca didn’t speak to me for two months, and Selman Hoca banned me from doing stand-up again. I was a young stand-up comic who got grounded for it!

Fast forward 28 years (yes, twenty-eight), and I’ve grown a bit rusty; but ever since I settled in England, I’ve always had this dream: a stage environment where I can say, “Is there anyone else who wants to tell stories?” Then I’d perform, and after a thunderous applause, I’d have a chance to do it regularly. That’s why for the past 13 years (yep, thirteen), I jot down any details I find interesting in my phone or little notebook. At the first meeting of the team, while everyone was discussing the number of jokes they had, when I scrolled down my notes, they thought I was joking. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years!” I said, but no one seemed to care.

Of course, performing on stage is a whole different ballgame. There’s timing, delivery, movement, voice tone—the whole package. It’s not like everyday life. I can easily use Cem Yılmaz’s tone and jokes in my daily life, and everyone knows I picked that up from him. I was 13 when I saw Cem Yılmaz live on stage. (Now, think about it chronologically: at 7, I saw Zeki Alasya and Metin Akpınar; at 8, Nejat Uygur; at 10, Ferhan Sensoy; at 13, Cem Yılmaz; and at 14, Demet Akbağ and Yılmaz Erdoğan live.) It’s great to impersonate these masters, but if you do it on stage, people will tear you apart. They’ll say, “Cem Yılmaz does this!” Most of the audience wouldn’t know names like Sadri Alışık, Vahi Öz, Altan Erbulak, or Savaş Dinçel, nor have they seen Ace Ventura or any movie featuring the ZAZ trio, let alone recite a Vitamin song from memory. And they’d be right! If you don’t have your own style on stage, you’re done for!

That’s why, on my first night, my show, originally planned to be 15 minutes (yes, I said fifteen), wrapped up in just 12 minutes. “I must keep the pace, the tempo,” I thought, and the show flew by like a Scud missile. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t too bad. I got a few claps, a lot of reactions, and I stepped off the stage feeling like “I’m the king of the stage!” What was I wearing that first night? A black t-shirt and an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt. Some things never change, even after twenty-eight years, except for those baggy camo pants.

As I said, since I’ve been jotting down notes since I came to England, I’ve been rehearsing in front of the bathroom mirror. And what a stage it is! Since moving to England, we’ve changed houses four times, which means four different stages! My wife has started saying, “What are you doing, crazy? Are you talking to yourself again?” Sometimes I’d spend an hour performing in front of the mirror. Now Yunus occasionally says, “Hey, are you going to change your routine a bit?” I say, “Come on! The audience is different every time, thank goodness. There’s nothing to change!” I can’t seem to explain it. I’ve told him a hundred times; I’ve got enough material for at least nine more shows. Just let me know about the audience!

So, dear friends, I was already doing stand-up in England. Lemonade came later. Thank goodness it did. If Lemonade Comedy Club hadn’t been born, all my jokes would have slipped through the mirror and gone down the toilet!

Thank you, Lemonade!
Long live Lemonade!

Ege Oyuryuz –
Yes, I wanted to start the writing like this.
I wanted to grab your attention.
I probably didn’t succeed.
After all, who would read the words of a no-name comedian candidate?
I wouldn’t.
I’m just kidding.
I don’t want you to read this.
Go away.
HELP ME!

Yes, I did it again.
I’m sorry.
Anyway, you can really go now.
Do you still want to read?
Leave! You can do more important things!
Are you still reading?
Look, you’re still here!
Seriously, enough!
Stop messing around!

HEY!
(don’t go!)
Go!
(I’m trapped in this writing)
Help me!
This writing is forcing me to—-
…

Hehehe

Just kidding, darling…
What forcing?
Just go already.
(please don’t leave)
So, you’re still here…

Okay.
Then here’s my piece that I’ve written entirely of my own free will:

Hello!
Let there be a basket of greetings and a bouquet of jokes! I’d like to thank Lemonade for giving me this opportunity to write. Throughout this piece, I will shamelessly unleash the reckless horse inside me and make you laugh wildly.

Speaking of laughing, what we do at Lemonade is just that. We laugh. We spend hours on stage cracking jokes. It gets sweaty and intense, but it’s a fact that we can’t joke without an audience. We laugh together. The biggest factor that sets us apart from other comedians is, I think, the variety within our group. Laughing mothers, laughing youths, former jokesters.

I wasn’t there for the beginning of Lemonade. However, I’ve been following it since its first opening, waiting for the right moment. Therefore, I can’t say I was one of those weird relatives saying, “When I saw you, you were just a little thing; oh, I changed your diaper!” But I believe I’ve caught up with it in its adolescence. Lemonade was a slightly pimply, overconfident, confused kid. In the dark, hidden corners under Babel, jokes were being made, and laughter was echoing underground. (By the way, let’s note that some legendary names were present at Lemonade’s opening.) These underground laughs sometimes came in fantastic bursts but often turned into a long and exhausting process. Listening to 10-15 comedians back-to-back can be terrifying! Someone is always cracking jokes recklessly! Terrifying! (One day, when I went up last at an open mic, I was really scared that the audience would beat me up.)

To explain what we do at Lemonade, I need to tell you what we’re not:
We’re not famous.
And being famous is truly privileged! If you’re asking, “What does that even mean?”, I’m referring to the magical energy that comes with fame; the thin red carpet, the sharp microphone, the energy surrounding a recognized figure. It’s not a spiritual energy. Just think about it: when you’re watching someone you love or admire, like Jim Carrey’s silly faces will always make you laugh, Cem Yılmaz’s single move or word will always be funny, and Feyyaz Yiğit’s serious face will always bring a smile. What I mean is, when you step onto the stage, the audience that came specifically to see you is already simmering with a desire to laugh!

Ah, and big audiences! How wonderful they are! Let’s conduct a useless little experiment together:

Let’s have an audience of 100 people, and if only thirty percent of them laugh (which is 30 people), the remaining 70 are just smiling, thinking, “Did we not get the joke?” Now, let’s consider an audience of only 20 people; if thirty percent of them laugh (that’s 6 people), the other 15 are thinking, “What are these idiots laughing at?”

And if the audience finds you off-putting… well, that’s when you’ve really sat at the end of the stick.

Yes, that’s what we do at Lemonade. We get lost in the process, not knowing whether to sit at one end of the stick or the other. Will they laugh at political humor? Will saying “f*ck” be funny? If I make a joke about the girl in the audience, will the bald guy next to her beat me up? Can I pay rent this month? And so on.

I’ve shared how chaotic and dark this process can be for you. I want to mention that the chances of failure are high. Embarrassment, shame, bored faces, bad jokes, not being funny, and the worst—those who don’t laugh at you!

Yet, the beautiful images created in your mind by a tiny moment of success, “I made the bald guy laugh, yay, he won’t beat me up,” the joy of making even one person laugh for a moment cannot be erased by any negative feeling. Lemonade gives us this opportunity: it allows us to make others laugh and, in turn, gives us the chance to laugh ourselves. It spreads the joy of laughing together in our hands.

I’m happy to be a part of this ever-growing comedic community. For a while, I’ve just been watching and joking from afar. But during this time, Lemonade hasn’t stopped! Baturay Özdemirler, Ekiş stand-ups, and so on… you see, the lemon juice keeps flowing. The best part of such a formation is that it’s still at the beginning, still open to innovations and different people, welcoming everyone in one way or another. When we first started, there was almost no time limit at open mic nights! Nowadays, that’s gradually decreasing. As systems are built, it’s a fact that exceptions are becoming rarer. Still, Lemonade continues to behave fresh and sour towards new joiners just like on its first day. Come, watch, step onto the stage. Leave with a sour taste in your mouth (let’s hope for a good sourness!) and a smile on your face as you part from Lemonade.

And come again!