The Secret Club of Smoggie Queens: Why Niche Comedy Matters
There’s something undeniably magnetic about a show that doesn’t care if you get it. Smoggie Queens, the Middlesbrough-set comedy that feels like an inside joke you’re lucky to overhear, is exactly that kind of show. It’s not just niche—it’s defiantly niche. And personally, I think that’s what makes it so compelling. In an era where TV often feels engineered to appeal to the broadest possible audience, Smoggie Queens is a middle finger to convention. It’s weird, it’s queer, and it’s unapologetically itself.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the show balances its eccentricity with moments of genuine warmth. Creator Phil Dunning doesn’t just throw absurdity at the wall for the sake of it; there’s a method to the madness. Take the character of Mam, a bewigged mother figure played by Mark Benton. On the surface, Mam is a walking punchline—yelling at a lost rabbit named Andrea in a carpet warehouse, unclogging toilets at an Italian restaurant with complimentary coleslaw everywhere. But beneath the chaos, there’s a poignant backstory about estrangement from her son. It’s a detail that I find especially interesting—how the show weaves trauma into its fabric without letting it dominate.
From my perspective, this is where Smoggie Queens shines. It’s not afraid to be silly, but it also doesn’t shy away from the complexities of its characters. Dickie, the prickly protagonist, is a perfect example. He’s self-absorbed, oblivious, and often downright ridiculous (his fake American accent in the finale is a masterclass in cringe). But he’s also deeply relatable in his flaws. When he tries to solicit sympathy for his coming-out story—only to be reminded that his parents took him to Mamma Mia!—it’s both hilarious and heartbreaking. What this really suggests is that comedy doesn’t have to sacrifice depth to be funny.
One thing that immediately stands out is the show’s refusal to conform to traditional sitcom structures. Episodes don’t follow a neat A-to-B narrative; they’re more like eccentric rambles. A charity football match for people with extra areolae? Sure. A Mr Teesside Beauty Pageant that’s equal parts absurd and touching? Why not. If you take a step back and think about it, this loose structure mirrors the chaos of real life—especially for a marginalized community. It’s not about telling a perfect story; it’s about capturing the messiness of existence.
What many people don’t realize is how Smoggie Queens fits into a broader trend of British comedy that embraces peculiarity. Shows like Juice and Things You Should Have Done share this DNA—they’re not afraid to be baffling. But Smoggie Queens takes it a step further. It’s not just weird for the sake of being weird; it’s weird with purpose. The episode where Dickie’s LGBTQ+ event is hijacked by a straight pride group is a perfect example. The playlist choices—Agadoo, Born Slippy, Chelsea Dagger—are hilariously tone-deaf, but they also highlight the absurdity of straight culture trying to co-opt queer spaces.
In my opinion, this is where the show’s true power lies. It’s not just making people laugh; it’s making them think. And it’s doing it in a way that feels inclusive, not preachy. The fans of Smoggie Queens aren’t just watching a show—they’re joining a secret club. It’s a space where queer culture, Teesside humor, and pure absurdity collide. And for those who get it, it’s a lifeline.
This raises a deeper question: why do we need shows like this? In a world where representation is often reduced to tokenism, Smoggie Queens feels like a rebellion. It’s not trying to appeal to everyone, and that’s precisely why it matters. It’s a reminder that TV doesn’t have to be universal to be meaningful. Sometimes, the most impactful stories are the ones that speak directly to a specific group—and in doing so, they create a sense of belonging.
As I reflect on the show, I’m struck by how it manages to be both wildly specific and universally relatable. Yes, the jokes about Dunelm and coleslaw-covered tables might fly over some heads. But the emotions at the core—the desire to be seen, the struggle to belong, the joy of finding your people—are universal. That’s the magic of Smoggie Queens. It’s a show that feels like it was made just for you, even if you’re not from Middlesbrough, even if you’ve never set foot in a carpet warehouse.
In the end, Smoggie Queens isn’t just a comedy—it’s a statement. It’s a celebration of the weird, the queer, and the unapologetically niche. And personally, I think that’s something worth celebrating. Because in a world that often demands conformity, shows like this remind us that there’s power in being exactly who you are.
Final Thought:
If you’re not part of the Smoggie Queens fan club yet, you might be missing out on one of the most original comedies on TV. But don’t worry—the door’s always open. Just be prepared to embrace the chaos. After all, as Dickie would say, “Howay Andrea, ya silly knobhead!!!”
