BBC Comedy Collective: Making the Final 23 from 1,600 Applicants

What it’s Like to Interview for the BBC Comedy Collective

Mum... dad... don't panic, but the BBC might think I'm funny.

It’s been a month since I interviewed for the BBC Comedy Collective bursary and the journey began on Tuesday 22nd April.

I received an email: 

Subject: BBC Comedy: BBC Comedy Collective – update on your application.

I saw “1600 entries” in the preview and braced myself for a “well done but not well done enough.” I opened the email so I could file it away in my comedy writing folder but then a word caught my eye:

Interview.

That doesn’t usually feature in rejection emails.

I read it properly.

“We had over 1600 applications, and our readers were consistently impressed by the high standard of applications which made the selection process very challenging.

We are delighted to tell you that your application has progressed through to the interview shortlist of 23 candidates. There are 10 bursary places available.”

I couldn’t believe it. No one was home. Everyone I knew was at work. I swore. I punched the air. I considered the leftover curry in the fridge and whether I should celebrate with it. I couldn’t sit still.

So I went for a run. I grinned like an idiot. Runners aren’t known for smiling. But I was over the moon. Hornsea looked different that day. I had this ridiculous, glorious secret.

I even caught myself thinking: 

“I’m going to put Hornsea on the map!”

Which is absurd because Hornsea is already on a map. But you get it.

The Build-Up

When the booking link arrived, I chose first thing on May 2nd. I’d heard somewhere it’s best to be first or last in an interview, but couldn’t remember which. Either way, going first meant I wouldn’t spiral in anticipation all week.

That weekend, I attended the London Screenwriting Festival. I was buzzing. Not just from the collective news, but because I finally felt closer to the industry. For years I’d had this oddly specific dream of walking down a BBC corridor wearing a lanyard. 

I grew up in a rural village where a career in TV felt only possible for famous people. Not me.

A corridor and a lanyard. That’s how us rural kids dream.

The Interview

The interview took place over Teams. Two BBC comedy commissioners were on the other end of the screen friendly, funny, and kind.

“I’m excited, nervous, and I have five pages of notes I promise not to read them all.”

That was my opening gambit of course, not theirs. 

They put me at ease instantly. They reminded me that out of 1,600 applications—each reviewed individually—I’d made it to the final 23. They said that regardless of outcome, they saw me as part of the Collective.

They asked thoughtful, open questions about my journey, my voice, and how I saw the bursary fitting in. I shared that comedy had always been part of my life, but for a long time I didn’t realise TV writing was even an option. Growing up, the top career goal I’d heard of was becoming a barrister (which I considered). Then I discovered screenwriting and studied it at university. Afterwards, I didn’t feel I had anything meaningful to say when I graduated at the ripe age of 21, so I went out and lived.

I moved to Toronto. I started a consultancy in Brighton. I spent 15 years working in sales psychology and storytelling for business, teaching companies how to tell compelling stories and make people care. And while I enjoyed the work, I kept trying to sneak comedy into everything: a comedy web series about copywriting, a podcast with comedy sketches, conference talks that were basically stand-up in disguise. But eventually, I stopped trying to wedge comedy into business and decided to take it seriously.

I talked about why the Collective felt like the right next step: not just as access to the BBC, but as a watering hole of experience, learning, and community. I told them I wasn’t expecting a golden ticket I just wanted a chance to learn, write better, and be part of a group that made things happen.

When they asked where I saw myself in five years, I said:

“I’d love to have an original show commissioned. But along the way, I want to be a valuable voice in other people’s rooms. I want the phone to ring. I want to be helpful. And sure, let’s stick a BAFTA on the list.”

We talked about the kinds of shows I love: This Country, Alma’s Not Normal, Such Brave Girls, The Other One comedies where the relationships feel real, the regional voices are authentic, and even the darkest moments are laugh-out-loud funny. I mentioned my love for Sharon Horgan, Julia Davis, Louis CK, Ricky Gervais, and Reece Shearsmith & Steve Pemberton.

I shared a story about producing a live table read of one of my scripts (Facing Up). The feedback, the camaraderie, and the transformation from first rehearsal to laughter on the night that’s the thing I’ve been missing. A team. A gang. A collective.

At the end, I asked what had helped me stand out. They said the writing was first and foremost. That my script submission (Ground Down) had gone through six readers who connected with it. And that I felt like a self-starter and someone committed to comedy.

I floated through the rest of the day.

The Wait

The next seven days were a mess. I ping-ponged between hope and dread.

“I think I’ve got it.”

“I definitely haven’t.”

On decision day, I took my toddler swimming to keep myself distracted. I checked my inbox at 11am. Nothing. Again at 11:30. I had lunch, I did some work. I did everything I could to not check my emails, and then I gave in and checked them repeatedly. Hope faded. 

I had a work call at 3pm, so I began to prepare for that. 

At 2:38pm the email arrived.

Subject: Amy Harrison – BBC Comedy Collective ’25

I didn’t get it.

Even now, when I scroll past that subject line in my Gmail folder, I still feel a flicker of hope, like watching a replay of a losing greyhound race and convincing yourself you might win this time.

But I didn’t get it.

I was devastated.

It was a lovely, encouraging email reminding me of how well I’d done. I couldn’t fault it.

But I cried.

A silent cry. Noble. Stoic. Heroic. Surprisingly, instead of my usual snot blubber, this felt like a cinematic-worthy cry. 

Until I looked in the mirror.

I’d burst blood vessels in both eyes. I looked like a gout-riddled Victorian judge.

I pulled myself together for my work call and blamed the lack of camera on “engineering works” like I was the bloody Northern Line. Idiot. 

Aftermath

I knew the risk of caring this much. My family told me to stay grounded, not to get my hopes up. But why not? What’s the alternative? To stay numb just in case you’re disappointed?

I’m done hedging.Hope can hurt, but playing small hurts more.

I allowed myself to wallow. I brought out my emotional crisis dessert: the Tesco Double Chocolate Super Sundae. My friends didn’t flinch at the Sauvignon Blanc or the Henry Westons (vintage). But the sundae?

“Christ, you’re really going through it.”

They ignored my self-indulgent laments that I would likely never laugh again and toasted me with Prosecco:

“We think you’re brilliant.” 

It helped.

What’s Next

For a few weeks, I focused on work. I went to the Female Pilot Club Showcase in London. I did a podcast interview. A podiatrist set fire to my toenail. You know, life.

I didn’t write much at first, but June has a new energy.

I’ve been running again. Writing sketches. Tinkering with the end of Ground Down. Submitting to more competitions. Scouting producers for a short I’m developing.

It would be remiss of me as well if I didn't congratulate the 10 very-deserving members who did make it into the cohort. You can see them here, and their bios are impressive. I'm excited to see what they go on to do with the support of the BBC.

I’m still here as well. Still chasing that corridor. Still dreaming of the lanyard.

And if disappointment is proof that you cared, then discipline is proof you still do.

Let’s go.