I realised I was good at roast battles the first time a man I’d just insulted shook my hand afterwards and thanked me for it.
That’s when it clicks — this isn’t normal behaviour.
But it is useful.
I don’t do roast battles to win. I do them to find out what people actually think of me, without the usual polite lies. It turns out strangers are very efficient at identifying your worst traits. They just need a microphone and permission.
The dangerous part is when they’re right.
If one person calls you arrogant, you ignore it. If three people do it in front of a crowd, that’s no longer a joke — that’s feedback. Unsolicited, aggressive feedback, but still.
I’ve learned more about myself from being insulted on stage than from any serious conversation I’ve ever had. Which is either a great system, or a very worrying one.
The trick is specificity. If I can take someone apart in a way that only works on them, the audience stays with me. If my joke could be used on anyone, they switch off. Nobody came out for generic insults — they can get those at home.
There’s also a moment in every battle where it can go wrong. You push too far, or not far enough, and suddenly you’re not funny — you’re just a man being unpleasant in public. That line is thinner than people think.
I crossed it once. The silence was educational. I’ve been doing this long enough to know it’s not about destroying the other person. It’s about doing just enough damage to be interesting, and just enough charm to be forgiven.
Recently, I tried that here, which is exactly as risky as it sounds. Two local comedians, their crowd, their language, their advantage.
I went anyway. They were sharp. Quick. Unnecessarily confident.
Which, to be fair, is exactly how I’d describe myself.
We traded insults for ten minutes. The audience laughed. Nobody left. Which, in this line of work, counts as a victory. Afterwards, they bought me a pljeskavica. I accepted it. Not because I won — but because it felt like the closest thing to a peace agreement.
