What can get you kicked off stage? Mateusz Socha on censorship in Polish stand-up

Socha describes planning a year off and initially not writing any jokes. After three or four months of complete detox from comedy, his brain started going crazy, finding things funny again, and the inspiration returned. He contrasts this with a later situation where he had sold tickets for a new program before it was written, and he had to force himself to write and 'punch up' jokes on the road, which was exhausting. The key is that the break was intentional and pressure-free, allowing natural creativity to resurface. He emphasizes that he didn't have the stress of a deadline during that break, which made the process organic.

Socha explains his current format: he usually plays four days in a row every two weeks, with two shows per day. He tests new topical material at the beginning of the run. After the first show, he already knows what works and makes cosmetic changes. By the second day, he has performed it four or five times, and it's locked in his memory. He says he can't rehearse effectively before going on stage; he has to say it in front of an audience for it to stick in his 'hard drive.' He then records the polished version on the last two days. This method allows him to have fresh, current material that is still well-tested. He notes that the audience paid for his main program, not the topical opener, so he uses the first 15 minutes as a natural conversation starter about recent events.

Socha says he doesn't have a single person in the industry who can tell him bluntly that a joke is bad, but his wife serves that role for a few jokes. He throws her a premise when he's uncertain, and she tells him not only if it's funny but also if he can say it—meaning if it aligns with his persona. If she laughs naturally, he knows it's good. He acknowledges that she sometimes laughs just to be nice, but he can distinguish the sincere laugh. This is a low-pressure, informal testing ground before taking it to the stage.

Socha describes his process for the political sketches he does at the start of his shows. He and his team wait until the last possible moment to write, because if they write about something that happened a week ago, it might already be stale. He gives an example of a joke about Mencen inviting Trzaskowski and Nawrocki, which was a brilliant move, but then Mencen was seen having a beer with Sikorski, making the original joke outdated. They had to rewrite it to still work despite being outdated. So they monitor what's currently 'heating up' and write just before he leaves for the tour. He then tests it immediately on the first shows.

Socha says he reads comments mainly right after publishing to see the overall reception. He distinguishes between empty insults ('you're shit') which don't affect him, and comments that hit on a truth, which do hurt because they echo his own insecurities. He gives an example: after returning from vacation, someone wrote 'you've gotten fat,' and it stung because it was true, prompting him to get back to the gym. He believes this feedback is healthy in moderation, but reading every single comment is unhealthy. He focuses on the general vibe and the ratio of positive to negative.

Socha references this principle when discussing whether he ever intentionally goes after someone. He says that if someone gives him a perfect setup, he has to take it—it's like an open goal. He cites Ricky Gervais's line that a comedian's duty is to tell the joke. This overrides concerns about being mean, as long as the person is engaging willingly. He doesn't elaborate further, but it's a guiding ethos.

Socha recounts being diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Initially it was a shock, but after learning it was the most 'low-key' cancer with excellent prognosis, he gained distance. He processed it with his family, then sat down to write jokes. He found that when he performed the material and people laughed, he would completely forget about the illness—the disease became a tool for getting laughs. He contrasts this with a time he lost his driver's license and wanted to vent about the police on stage, but he knew that raw anger wouldn't be funny. He emphasizes that the audience feeds off your energy; if you're still emotional, they'll be uncomfortable. So you must first work through it privately.

Socha notes that people sitting in the front row usually want to engage, so he now asks 'who wants to talk?' and almost always gets a volunteer. He describes his current style as 'pleasant'—he wants to learn about the person, and if something funny comes out, great; if not, he moves on. This shift reflects a maturation and a desire to avoid the discomfort that aggressive roasting can cause, both for the audience member and for himself. He acknowledges that from the audience's perspective, it might still look like teasing, but he emphasizes that he only goes as far as the person allows, and he can sense when someone is uncomfortable and backs off immediately. He also mentions that he has to live with his conscience, so he doesn't push it.

Socha explains that he initially tried to write all his news-based material alone, and it worked well, but he realized that to keep doing it without exhausting himself, he needed help. He now has a team that pitches ideas, which opens up many doors in his mind and changes how his brain works on a topic. He compares it to late-night shows in the US where writers' rooms are standard, and the host gets the credit. He distinguishes between stealing a joke from an unknown open-micer and collaborating with friends where everyone throws ideas and he, as the 'CEO' or 'production director,' decides what fits his style. He says his team sometimes complains when their favorite joke doesn't make the final cut, but he explains it's not for him or didn't work on stage. He feels totally comfortable with this now.

He says that if he were to attack only one candidate and spare others, his own political views would show, and that would automatically turn off those who disagree. He gives an example of a joke about doctors and medicine that didn't land because it revealed a belief that might be too fringe for his audience. He notes that even when mocking the church, if you joke about pedophile priests, you get laughs because you're hitting pedophilia, not the institution per se, but a devout Catholic might still be offended. He tries to avoid being a populist who just repeats what the majority believes, because that applause is forgettable. Instead, he looks for the other side and mocks that. He admits that conspiracy theories are a tempting topic but he's found that you can't take a side; his attempts to push his own 'wisdom' on stage never work.

He clarifies that his ranking is purely subjective—what makes him laugh the most. He says that after Pacześ's first two programs, which he loved, the subsequent ones didn't amuse him as much, so now his own comedy entertains him more. He is careful not to criticize Pacześ's work, acknowledging that the special was well-received and people loved it, and he doesn't want to insult those fans. He emphasizes that in stand-up there is no objective 'best' because humor is personal, but for him, the most important metric is audience reaction, and he wants to stay at the top. He admits that ticket-sale-wise, Lotek sells more, but subjectively, he is 'top of the top, king, best ever the goat.'

He argues that if your parents were dull and there was no humor at home, you won't learn it. In his family, joking was constant, and he learned that making people laugh brought the greatest gratification—he saw his grandfather telling stories at the table, everyone laughing and liking him more, so he wanted that. He then consumed comedy voraciously, always trying to be funny, from class clown onward. The other 50% (he says 50% after saying 95% upbringing, but then says 'and the other 50%' meaning the other half) is regular writing, performing, testing. So it's a combination of early exposure and relentless work. He doesn't believe in genetic predisposition to being funny.