SAM Simmons is an Australian comedian who scooped two of the most prestigious prizes on the touring circuit last year – the Foster’s Edinburgh Comedy Award and the Barry Award at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival.

The 38-year-old is bringing his Not a People Person routine to Hove in October, after another well-reviewed run in Edinburgh. Simmons spoke to EDWIN GILSON about his zookeeper days, shamanism, and why you should never spend a lengthy period of time with comedians.

You are nearing the end of your run at Edinburgh this summer, how are you feeling?

I love doing the hour show, when I’m in it, but it’s just the rest of it that’s the problem. I just got told off by a 22-year-old. They think they know everything. How old are you? 23? Arrgh, you’re not going to tell me off are you? I put some beers in the fridge backstage before my show and got told it wasn’t the right thing. How bored are you? No, it’s totally fine although I am looking forward to a bit of alone time.

I’m also living with comedians, which is the worst. They’re always around the house moping about getting bad reviews. Maybe they should be funnier, then.

Do you largely try and avoid comedians in everyday life, then?

Definitely. I had a breakdown in a car recently, travelling back from a festival with three comedians, and it’s just like...’just shut up guys. Shut up and be a normal human being. There’s nothing worse than somebody who is “on” all the time. Sorry, I just had an argument at the venue with a 22-year-old, that’s why I’m a bit fiery right now

Are you good at switching off from the act, then, in a way that these people aren’t?

I turn off as soon as I go home. I’m a completely normal person, I just have a skill for channelling my rage through comedy. It’s basically the only thing I’ve got. I used to be a zookeeper. I feel like I fell into comedy almost by accident. I don’t really care if it falls by the wayside, so there’s not that pressure on me. It’s not like I’ve been going to clubs since the age of 14 and trying to be funny.

How did you fall into comedy, exactly?

I used to do presentations to the public as a zookeeper at Melbourne Zoo, and I guess I was kind of funny doing them. Then I was approached by the ABC, which is like Australia’s BBC, and it all happened from there.

Do you think there was a heightened level of pressure on your show this year, given the success you enjoyed in 2015?

It’s pretty obviously there, yeah. It’s sold out every night, with a whole lot of rubberneckers. I think I’ve dropped the ball probably three times in the whole run, but on the whole it’s been fantastic. I talk a little bit about the pressure of having to come back and live up to expectations, but I’ve been nominated for that award three times before. It’s not a fluke that I come up with a show and it’s ok, I do know what I’m doing.

What is the meaning behind the title of your routine, Not a People Person, and what does the show entail in general?

It’s based around a stupid story about Brian Wilson from The Beach Boys and birds, together with a thread about euthanasia. I had to euthanise loads of animals at the zoo in the past. There is a dignity about it being on your own terms, and having the power to own your own death. That’s about as dark as it gets.

It’s a lot more stand-uppy than my other stuff, and I think its easier for the audience to digest. They already have to think hard about a) that I’m Australian and b) I’m being weird. Those two things are hard for people.

The show promises to delve into your ‘paranoia’ and ‘self-hatred’ – how personal is your routine, really?

I often feel like it’s a bit manipulative to be personal. People call them the “dead dad” shows, but people are now mining their personal stuff in extraordinary ways. Last year, mine was hidden behind the absurdity of my set which masked a lot of really dark stuff. Nobody knew if it was true or not.

I do love the personal diatribe stuff but I do think there is a line. It’s going to get to the point where somebody brings a gun out on stage and shoots themselves in the head, before somebody yells out five stars. The paranoia and self-hatred are just poetic words in a press release.

You talk about shamanism, too. Is this a newfound interest?

I’m not a very spiritual person, but I’ve been living in Los Angeles for the last five years and I find it really fascinating. I can respect the spiritual stuff now - it’s all about community. There’s a stigma around it, like dirty hippy and all that, but not in L.A. I guess L.A can be a bit soulless, but because of that maybe people communicate in a deeper way. They’re very kind. Definitely a lot kinder than the Brits. Sorry. They make themselves better people in that concrete jungle.

Why did you make the move there in the first place?

Just lots of work. I’m developing a series over there. America is an interesting place to play. I do think I get a bit pigeon-holed over here because I’m Australian. There’s still that thing with Australians generally that we are under the foot. You Brits feel like you own us.

When Darwin (in Australia) was invaded by the Japanese in the Second World War, the British wouldn’t send back any Australian troops. So the Americans flew in and rescued us. I guess our allegiance shifted a little bit then. We’re under the British flag but we do look a little towards America now. I’m not pro-American but I am pro-American people.

Would you ever include such historical background in your sets?

Nah, my shows are stupid, man. They’re just dumb. There’s angry ranting, me being a d***head, monologues. It’s a cacophony of weird stuff. It’s been described as blue-collar absurdity. It’s not profound weird, it’s just stupid. I was brought up on a big tide of British comedy, so that sensibility is where my comedy comes from.

>>> Sam Simmons, The Old Market, Hove, Monday, October 3, 8pm, £12, call 01273 201 801