On paper, comedy and charity auctioneering look unrelated. In practice they are almost the same job: stand in front of a room, hold its attention, control its mood and never let it drift. My years writing and performing comedy turned out to be superb training for raising money.

Timing is everything

Comedy lives and dies on timing, and so does an auction. Knowing when to pause, when to push and when to let a moment land is the difference between a bid and an awkward silence. I built that instinct on stage, not in a manual.

Reading a room in real time

A comedian learns to feel a room shift within seconds and adjust before it goes cold. That is exactly what a live auction demands: sensing hesitation, spotting the table that is about to go, changing tack the instant the energy dips.

Recovering from anything

Technology fails, a lot stalls, a line misses, a bidder drops out. Because I have handled hecklers and silent rooms, I do not panic. I turn the wobble into a moment and keep the evening moving. Composure under pressure is worth a great deal to a nervous committee.

Laughter opens wallets

Warmth and humour relax a room, and a relaxed room is a generous one. This is not about telling jokes for the sake of it, it is about creating an atmosphere where people enjoy themselves and want to give. That blend of genuine entertainment and serious fundraising is exactly what I bring.

If you want a host who can hold the room and lift the total, let’s talk.

By the time I pick up the microphone, the most important work is often already done. The connection I make with a room during the drinks and the dinner is what makes the auction feel like a shared moment rather than a sales pitch. It is quietly one of the most valuable things I do all night.

A stranger has to win the room twice

If the first time your guests notice me is when I ask for money, I am starting cold. Spend a little time among the tables beforehand and I arrive on stage as a familiar face. People give more readily to someone they feel they already know.

I learn who is in the room

Working the room before the auction tells me things no brief can: who is here to compete, who is shy but keen, which table is celebrating, where the energy sits. That intelligence shapes every decision I make once the bidding starts.

Small moments, big returns

A shared joke at a table, remembering someone’s name, a quiet word with the committee: these tiny moments build trust. When it is time for the pledge, that trust is what lets me ask boldly without the room tightening up. At Spear Islington, mingling first and then telling the right stories at the right moments lifted them to their biggest total to date.

It is respect, not tactics

None of this works if it is a performance. Guests can tell the difference between genuine interest and a politician working a rope line. I do it because I enjoy it, and because a room can always feel the difference.

Connection is not a nice extra. It is the groundwork that makes everything after it possible. If that is the kind of evening you want, let’s talk.

Every event runs perfectly right up until it does not. A microphone dies, a headline bidder leaves early, a lot falls flat, the running order changes ten minutes before we start. The mark of an experienced host is not that these things never happen, it is that the room never notices when they do.

I assume the technology will misbehave

I always know what I will do if the microphone cuts out, the screen freezes or the bidding system hiccups. Usually that means being ready to project, ad-lib and keep the energy up while it is fixed, so a technical wobble becomes a shrug rather than a silence.

I have a plan for the flat lot

Not every lot flies. When one stalls, panic is the worst response. My back-up plan might be splitting it, bundling it, opening it to the room differently, or landing it gracefully and protecting the momentum for the next one.

I expect the running order to change

Speeches overrun, guests of honour arrive late, dinner runs long. I build the night so I can compress it, stretch it or reorder it on the spot without losing the thread. My flexibility is planned, not improvised.

Calm is contagious

When I stay relaxed, the committee relaxes and the room stays warm. Half of my job is being the steadiest person in the building, so that whatever happens behind the scenes, the evening out front feels effortless.

If you want a host who has already thought about what could go wrong, get in touch.

Auctioneering and building businesses call on the same muscles: understanding what something is worth, reading the person across the table, and knowing exactly when to close. I have done both, and the commercial instinct shows up in the total.

An eye for value

Years of pricing, selling and negotiating teach you what a thing is really worth to the person who wants it. On stage that means pitching an opening bid at the right level, choosing increments that keep momentum, and knowing when a lot has more left in it.

Your target is a real number

To me, a target is not a hope, it is a figure to be hit, with a plan behind it. I approach a night the way I would approach any goal: understand the number, design the route to it, and adjust in real time if we are not on track. At the Jigsaw Trust gala I was briefed to raise £14,000 from the auction, and the night finished at £57,600.

Comfortable with the close

Asking clearly for money is uncomfortable for a lot of people. If you have spent years doing deals, it is second nature. That confidence is exactly what a pledge moment needs: a steady, unembarrassed ask that gives the room permission to give.

Problem-solving on the night

Running businesses is mostly solving problems quickly with imperfect information. So is backstage at an event. The habit of staying calm and finding the next best move travels straight from one world to the other.

If you want that commercial edge in the room, tell me about your event.

Plenty of charities hand the microphone to a friendly trustee or a confident staff member, and it can go perfectly well. But if the goal is to raise as much as possible, a professional almost always brings in more than they cost. Here is the honest comparison, from someone who is admittedly not neutral.

Experience the room can feel

I have read a few thousand rooms and I know what a hesitation means, when to push and when to wait. A brilliant internal volunteer is usually doing this once a year. That difference in reps shows up directly in the total.

The freedom of neutrality

Your staff member has to work with these guests again on Monday. I do not, which means I can be bolder with the ask, cheekier with a reluctant bidder and firmer on increments, without worrying about the office politics. That freedom is worth real money.

Comfort with the ask

The hardest moment of the night is looking a room in the eye and asking for serious money. Most people find it deeply uncomfortable. Doing it well, repeatedly and warmly, is a professional skill, and it is exactly where amateur nights leave money on the table. At MS UK, a pledge I ran raised £8,300 with every pound going to the charity, in a room that had struggled to convert the year before.

Your team gets to enjoy the night

Hand the room to me and your staff and trustees can host, thank sponsors and actually be present, instead of sweating over the running order. That alone is often worth it.

The maths usually works

I typically lift an auction by far more than my fee, and my fees are built around the size and opportunity of your event. If you would like me to sense-check the numbers for your night, get in touch.

A great bidding war looks like luck. It is not. When two people push a lot far beyond its value, I have usually engineered the conditions for it well before the hammer. Here is what is actually going on.

It starts with the right lot

Wars happen over things people genuinely, emotionally want: access, experiences, one-of-a-kind moments. Part of my craft is knowing before the night which lots have that pull, and giving them the space and the story to matter. This is why I would rather help you source five to eight brilliant lots than run a list of thirty forgettable ones.

Open at the right number

Open too high and I kill it before it starts. Too low and I waste time crawling up. The right opening invites a lot of hands, then lets the room thin naturally to the two who really want it. Getting that first number right is half the battle.

Increments set the tempo

How I move the numbers controls the pace: bigger jumps early to build momentum, smaller ones near the top to keep both bidders in without scaring them off. Clumsy increments stall a war. Well-judged ones keep it alive.

Read the two who want it

Once it is down to two, the whole room is watching them. My job is to keep it warm and good-humoured, a smile, a nod, a bit of theatre, so it feels like fun rather than a duel. People will go a long way for a cause when they are enjoying themselves.

Remember it is for charity

The best part of a charity bidding war is that everyone wins: the charity, the winner, and the room that got the show. Keeping that spirit front and centre is what separates a great moment from an awkward one.

Want lots that create these moments? It usually starts with how the night is built. Let’s talk.

Getting two people to compete for a lot is exciting. Managing it well is what turns that excitement into a big number without anyone feeling cornered. This is the part of the job that happens entirely in real time, and it is my favourite.

Control the pace

A war has a natural rhythm, and it is my job to keep it moving without rushing it. I speed up to build heat, slow down to let a bidder decide, and use a pause to heighten the moment. The room should feel carried, not hurried.

Protect both bidders

The two people bidding are being generous in public, and they should always feel good about it. I keep it warm and playful, never sarcastic. The one who bows out should leave feeling like a hero for driving the price up, not like they were beaten. This is where the campfire lines come out, and they always land.

Manage the increments

Near the top, the increments matter enormously. Jump too hard and I scare someone out. Nudge too gently and it drags. Reading how much each bidder has left, and adjusting the steps to match, is where the experience earns its fee.

Close at the peak

The hardest judgement is when to bring the hammer down. Hold on too long chasing one more bid and the energy leaks away. Close at the peak and the whole room feels the win. I would always rather end on a high than squeeze the last drop and flatten it.

Bring the room with them

A well-run war is a spectator sport. Applause for the winner, a laugh for the runner-up, and the whole room is warmed up for the next lot. That shared joy is worth as much to the night as the money itself.

If you want that energy at your event, tell me about your night.

I have stood in front of a lot that should have flown and watched the room sit on its hands. The instinct is to push harder. Usually that is exactly the wrong move. Here is what I actually do to re-engage a quiet room.

Diagnose before you push

A flat lot is a symptom. Maybe the room is tired, maybe a speech ran long, maybe dinner is late, maybe I opened the bidding too high. Reading why the energy dropped tells me how to lift it. Pushing blindly just makes the silence louder.

Change the temperature

Often the fix is emotional, not financial. A well-told story about where the money goes, a genuine laugh, a warm word to a table: anything that reminds the room why they are here and lets them relax. People bid when they feel good, not when they feel pressured.

Reset the ask

Sometimes I simply opened too high. Dropping to a friendlier starting point, bundling, or splitting a lot gets hands moving again. Momentum matters more than pride. A lot that sells with energy is worth more to the night than one I forced.

Protect what comes next

The real danger of a quiet lot is that it drags down the ones after it. Knowing when to land it gracefully and move on, rather than squeezing a dead room, is what keeps the whole evening alive. One flat lot is fine. Three in a row is a pattern I break fast.

Bring the room back to the cause

When all else stalls, I come back to why we are here. A clear, specific reminder of what the night funds re-centres the room and often reopens the giving. The pledge moment exists for exactly this reason, and it is usually where the night is rescued.

If you want a host who can steady a room and turn it around, let’s talk.

I can prepare everything about an auction except the moments that matter most. The best bits are almost always unplanned: the reply to a heckle, the joke about the lot nobody wanted, the save when the technology fails. Quick wit is what makes those moments land, and it is one of the hardest things to fake.

The room remembers the unscripted

Guests forget my polished lines and remember the moment I said exactly the right thing off the cuff. Those moments become the story people tell afterwards, and they are worth more to a night than any rehearsed patter.

Turning a stumble into a highlight

Something goes wrong at every event. A quick, warm response turns a flat lot or a dead microphone into a shared laugh, and the room relaxes because it can see nothing rattles me. That composure is contagious, and it is worth real money in the bidding that follows.

Keeping the energy up

Auctions have natural lulls. A well-timed aside, a bit of gentle mischief with a bidder, a spontaneous line about the room, all of it keeps the temperature up between the big moments. It is the difference between a night that flows and one that stalls.

It is built, not born

Quick wit looks like luck but it comes from experience: hundreds of rooms, thousands of moments, and a background presenting and performing live where thinking on your feet is the whole job. My years on stage and in front of a camera are exactly where that instinct was forged.

If you want a host who is at their best when the script runs out, get in touch.

People assume charity auctioneering is a natural gift. Some of it is temperament, but most of it is craft: learnable, improvable, and built over hundreds of rooms. This is where I found the work actually was.

Learn to read a room

Everything starts here. Before you can raise money you have to feel what a room is: warm or cautious, competitive or reserved, tired or buzzing. The only way to build that instinct is to stand in front of a lot of rooms and pay ruthless attention to how each one responds. I learned one of my sharpest lessons the hard way, by walking into a noisy room and starting before I had it quiet. I lost half the auction to chatter, and I have commanded the room first ever since.

Get comfortable with the ask

The hardest skill is looking a room in the eye and asking for real money without flinching. It feels unnatural at first. I make it feel like an invitation, warm and unembarrassed, so the room gives happily. Practise the pledge moment until it stops scaring you, because that moment is where the biggest numbers live.

Tell the story

A lot is worth what the room believes, and belief comes from story. I learned to make an experience feel like a memory and a cause feel specific and real. Facts inform. Stories move money.

Control your energy and pace

I try to play a room like an instrument: build pressure, release it with a laugh, use silence, never rush. That control only comes with reps. Watch yourself back, notice where you lost the room, and fix one thing at a time.

Care about the cause

The final, unteachable ingredient is that you have to genuinely care. A room can feel the difference between a hired voice and a real advocate, and it gives accordingly.

No guide replaces reps. If you would like to see what all of this looks like in practice, take a look at how a few recent nights went.