October 10, 2024 - 11:00am

Comedy is in a strange place at the moment. This week, veteran BBC producer Jon Plowman — whose credits include Absolutely Fabulous, Bottom and The Thick Of It — made several good points about the state of British comedy. In an astute article for the Radio Times, he rightly points out that it’s increasingly difficult to establish a new comedy show in the atomised, niche world of streaming, and that comedies need time to grow and gather an audience.

But he is on sticky ground when he claims that political correctness is not a key reason for our lack of good humour. He writes that “there has been a discussion about whether political correctness is killing comedy. That argument is often made by comics who aren’t funny, blaming PC.”

His line of thinking is fair, mistaken though it is. TV people are always seeking reasons for why they don’t get a commission or why their show flops — I’ve done it myself. He is right to be suspicious of such excuses.

But this is a coping mechanism, and one I’ve seen many of the saner people left in the media making: “Ah, things aren’t so bad. It’s all still OK really.” But the truth is that the TV comedy industry, along with almost all of the arts, is in active terror of the small number of very vocal and disproportionately culturally powerful activists and fellow travellers of “intersectionality”. This fact is simultaneously too ludicrous and too awful to face, so we all lie to ourselves and pretend it’s not true.

Plowman uses the example of Derry Girls to demonstrate that scabrous, bold comedy is still being made. “Everyone was talking about it,” he says, an odd claim for a series that barely broke three million viewers. Although that counts as a smash hit nowadays, it’s certainly not “everyone”. Yet Derry Girls was given a pass because it was about young girls in one of Britain’s neglected regions. It satisfied diversity quotas in that it was about a minority of historically “oppressed” people. This is a point over and above however good the show is. Plowman thinks that people who say it would be impossible to make AbFab today — including Jennifer Saunders, who hardly needs to find excuses — are wrong.

Plowman’s opinions sometimes veer from the fair but mistaken to the patently ridiculous. He entertains the idea of comedy “punching up” and “punching down”, a naff cliché beloved of activists which I assumed was too well-worn to be mentioned by anybody reasonable after about 2019. This is the grotesque idea that comedy is about targets and power dynamics, to a scale set by activists, which is the death of hope. And humour.

If comedy was genuinely foregrounding “punching up”, then the last ten years would’ve been full of sitcoms taking aim at the awful privileged middle-class idiots who infest and control the institutions, public or corporate. But they have power, and everybody is terrified of them. How else could things as obviously ludicrous and ripe for mockery as genderism or the counterproductive ideology that calls itself “antiracism” get into the mainstream virtually unquestioned and unsatirised? Even going near these subjects in a mildly critical manner has been enough to render one an outcast.

We live in a world where the stage musical version of Father Ted, Channel 4’s most successful sitcom, has been cancelled because writer Graham Linehan objects to the patent nonsense of transgenderism. By contrast, comedian Eshaan Akbar is unlikely to receive any professional consequences for cracking jokes about the 7 October massacre at the Nova music festival. Akbar quipped: “A year ago today, something mad happened involving hummus and sausages at a music festival.”

I’m not saying people should be cancelled for bad jokes, merely that the comedy establishment is selective in its outrage and punishment. Regardless of “punching up” or “punching down”, almost all comedy takes a swing at someone, hence the name of the now-defunct satirical magazine Punch. It’s possible we’re just not comfortable with that in our #BeKind era.

Plowman must know all of this, but he has to survive in his milieu like we all do, so he’s told himself comforting lies. But terrified comedy, wearing the rictus grin of “this is all fine really”, is deathly. It is, ironically, humour in thrall to power.


Gareth Roberts is a screenwriter and novelist, best known for his work on Doctor Who.

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