Ask John Achkar if he’s made it as a comedian and he’ll tell you, quite calmly, that he has no idea, and that the concept might not even exist. This is a man who’s headlined the Olympia Paris in front of 2,000 people, but sure, let’s pretend that’s ambiguous.
What isn’t ambiguous: he writes a full stand-up special almost every single year, he refuses to just translate a joke from Arabic to English because apparently that’s cheating, and he still keeps a very solid Plan B running in the background just in case comedy decides to stop being a thing. We talked to him about all of it, plus what it’s like getting a professional nod from your childhood hero mid-career.
A Beirut-born stand-up who made history at the Olympia Paris.
You grew up in Beirut, studied and worked as a corporate trainer before the world knew you as a comedian. What was the exact moment you knew that stand-up wasn’t going to stay a side project, and how did your family in Lebanon react when you told them?
Until now I’m not sure if this is the final path, because coming from where I’m coming from — from Lebanon — it’s still not easy, even with everything you’ve achieved, to convince the parents that this is the only thing you’re doing. And funny story: I’m still doing so many other things other than comedy, just to make sure that in case comedy stops for a reason or another, I still have a plan B. Usually people in Lebanon have plan B, C, D, E, F. In my case, B is quite good, so that’s it.
What was the moment when you got your first laugh, and how did it feel?
I think my first laugh was when I was a Boy Scout. We were having this campfire, and it took me a while — I couldn’t do it the first two or three years in Boy Scouts. But maybe the fourth year, it was the first time I went on stage. It was more about skits — we were doing some skits around the campfire. And I remember the joke, I remember the feeling, I remember the skit, I remember the character I was portraying.
If Achkar’s Boy Scout campfire origin story has you thinking about how strange and small most comedy beginnings actually are, it’s worth reading about Rebecca Wolf. From playing a seagull to building an entire immersive show around a stuffed pig husband, she had an unlikely path to comedy too.
What was the moment when you realised that you might have made it as a stand-up comedian? Or do you think that the moment is yet to come?
I think I haven’t made it as a comedian yet. And also, as comedians, I’m not sure when we decide that we made it. I’m not sure at all if there is a certain threshold, a certain “okay, you reached this point, so it means you made it” — because a lot of comedians reach super high levels, and then they lose the throne.
You perform primarily in Arabic, and you’re trying more in English. How tough is it to write a joke in a language that’s not your native one, and how difficult is it to land the punchline in a different language?
It is definitely difficult. The thing is, it’s about writing for another audience. You have to show where you’re coming from, you have to go deep, explain your why, and still make it relatable and understandable for a different audience. And you cannot just translate. So it’s about the writing, and the writing, and the writing — until you feel it works.
You’ve been very open on stage about marriage, divorce, and life in Dubai — subjects most comics dance around. How do you decide what’s fair game from your personal life, and has there been a joke you retired because it stopped feeling like yours to tell?
This is a huge thing. Sometimes I start a new tour talking about, say, my wife’s pregnancy, and then my wife gives birth. So the pregnancy isn’t current anymore, but what’s not relevant for me isn’t necessarily not relevant for the audience. I overshared on Instagram my personal life, so people know that this happened a while ago. But I think the story is way more important than when the story happened. So people, if you take them into this field, in this universe, this narration, this storyline, they’ll forget whether this really happened, or when it happened, or if this is exactly the truth. The only line I draw between my personal life and stand-up is when other people are involved in the story. If I’m the only person involved, there are no limits. But if many people are involved, it’s different.
You were the first Lebanese comedian to film a stand-up special at the Batroun festival, and your biggest achievement so far was headlining the Olympia Paris. What did walking out on that stage feel like for a Lebanese comic, given what the region has been through?
Actually, I was the first comedian to film a special on the Batroun festival stage — it was a 500-seat show. And then my biggest achievement so far is the Olympia Paris. We taped my special there with 2,000 people. It was the first time someone performed in Arabic on that stage. It’s a mythical, iconic venue — many artists have dreamed of performing there. The feeling was celebration. My people love to celebrate. We lost a lot. We were disappointed a lot. So now everyone comes for every small win, because we’re so disappointed with all the political and social aspects of the culture.
You opened for Gad El Maleh in Dubai and Paris — a dream you’ve said you’d carried since childhood. What was that conversation with him like, and did he say anything to you that night that you still think about?
Him suggesting I open for him at the launch — that was proof that my comedy works. I wasn’t sure it did. I didn’t start my career in a good way. People told me audiences don’t like stories, that no one cares about my stories, all this stuff that just doesn’t apply. And I really felt Gad was doing this — he’s a great storyteller. I’m not copying him, but I was very inspired. I even have his same body language. I watched him so much, I studied him so much. Getting the credit from him directly — that was a huge, huge deal.
You’ve dropped a full stand-up special almost every year — No Worries (2022), Wen 3ayish? (2023), Shou Zakeh?! (2024), AAM JARRIB (2025), and now FEENA NEHKE? on tour. How are you writing this fast, and does the pace ever scare you?
Before, artists had the luxury to travel with their specials for years. But now, with social media, we have to write constantly. I’m not the fastest. Within one year you do your own country and a tiny world tour — that’s enough. And it’s not just writing. It’s a lot of testing shows, where people come and watch me try new bits and new stories to see how they go.
How do you craft your joke? Do you sit down and write everything word to word, or riff on stage too to get your material?
I use every way to come up with new material. Anything I write, I write in my notes. I take my time. I also go on stage in a certain mindset — that I want to tell them the best story ever. And a lot of magic happens on stage. I try to be as present as I can. So whenever I’m on stage, I feel I’m here, I’m writing this while performing — and that’s a great feeling.
Who are your stand-up comedy idols?
As a storyteller, as a storytelling comedian, I love John Mulaney, definitely, and Gad El Maleh in my life. And I also love Muhammad — for everything he did for the Arabic scene, performing in English.
In 2026 you’re attempting English stand-up at the Edinburgh Fringe. What made you take that leap now, and what part of your Arabic voice do you think you’ll lose in translation?
I want to do the Fringe with my accent, with my Arabic voice. I don’t think anything should be lost in translation. I should be saying the same, translating the same feeling of me coming from Lebanon, with this Lebanese accent and this very, very Lebanese story. Despite my accent not being ideal in English, and despite other comedians who might kill it or be way more hilarious than I am — people now connect to the story itself, not only to the punchline.
A word of advice for all the aspiring comedians out there.
Stage time. Stage time is the biggest advice. Be on stage as much as you can. Get on stage and reflect on your performances every single day — see what you can do better.
A Boy Scout campfire, a corporate training day job, a Plan B he refuses to retire, and somehow, the Olympia Paris. John Achkar’s career doesn’t really follow a straight line, but it does follow a pattern: show up, do the work, stay quietly unconvinced you’ve made it, repeat.
Next stop is the Edinburgh Fringe, in English, accent and all. Given everything else he’s talked his way into, betting against him seems like a rookie move.
And if you’re curious what it looks like when a comic doesn’t keep a Plan B at all, Jackie Joy talks about the moment comedy simply decided her next steps for her, no backup plan required.