Ever since the rise of strange and awful presidents and prime ministers all over a right-tilting world, stand-up comedians have been complaining that their livelihood has been snatched from them. (File)
The Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize, the UK’s only award for comic literature, is not being awarded because the judges didn’t get the joke. When they were confronted with specimens of humour, ice formed on their upper slopes. This drought of drollery on an island famed for it invites sociological analysis. Heavens, the Brits can be funny just sitting still. If a humour deficit is perceived among them, either they have changed, or the world, from which they distil humour, has changed.
If not actually disgruntled, the English are far from being gruntled. They have chosen to Brexit, and it is a wonder that Bollinger continues to support the Wodehouse Prize, since the jeroboam of sparkling wine awarded to the winner comes from the Champagne district. The monstrous pig which accompanies it, and which is named after the winning work, is raised on British oats. It is an extraordinary prize, still connecting the sceptred isle to the continent in the teeth of Brexit. This prize is an international incident. Don’t laugh.
While the Brits have changed, the world has changed too. Ever since the rise of strange and awful presidents and prime ministers all over a right-tilting world, stand-up comedians have been complaining that their livelihood has been snatched from them. It’s easy for them to vocalise the complaint, because they talk for a living. Writers do lonely battle with their work behind closed doors. As PG Wodehouse said, “I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.” It is not easy for writers to communicate the ignominy of finding their best humour overtaken by real-world events, reported on the front page. It’s enough to make them lose interest in a prize where the winner gets some booze and a pig gets a name. What sort of joke is that, anyway?