There is a condition called the Pseudobulbar Affect in those with neurological disorders. It can lead to uncontrollable fits of laughter, especially in inappropriate situations, and it has no known cure. Treatment involves the usual lottery of prescribing anti-depressants – which are the biggest medical con peddled on Western society – with usually little success. However, as a learned man, I have since applied for a medical grant to pursue research into a cure.
Although I have no formal scientific background the idea of how it could be cured struck me quite vividly as I sat through the British Comedy Awards. As much as I wanted to I found laughter physically impossible. It was like being in a comedy vacuum, a space where literally nothing funny could be heard or reacted to for two whole hours. Based on how I felt by the end I wager there will be some gruesome side-effects… I, for example, was left chronically depressed and nauseous. Still, for those afflicted, they may well be small prices to pay to be able to sit through a funeral of a friend or relative without behaving inappropriately.
Yes, it is safe to say that if the British Comedy Awards were a barometer of the state of play when it came to the “funny business” in Barometer, then we are at an all time low. I was actually shocked at how unfunny the whole thing was and was amazed at how they recycled material, which was never funny to begin with, in a way that would be offensive to the type of moron that found custard-pie fights amusing.
The opening video showed Jonathan Ross being refused entrance to the event by the doorman because HE DIDN’T RECOGNISE HIM!!!!!! This is funny because Ross had to take some time off from TV when his chronically unfunny prank call to loveable racist caricature Andrew Sachs backfired so spectacularly it almost put Britain into a state of martial law. Except he sort of didn’t and wherever there is some pithy and mediocre talk show, or review show of some kind, he’s always there, taking a bit fat cheque with a shit eating grin on his face. The sketch would have been more accurate and funny if the doorman had simply denied him entrance to the event for being a massive cunt. And then proceeded to kick the shit out of him with a few of his thick burly friends.
Alas, Jonathan Ross was allowed in and his opening monologue contained so many dreadful one-liners the laughter in the room – and don’t forget this is from an audience of fellow comedians, all pissed out of their mind and happy to laugh it up like the self congratulatory hyenas that they are – was more nervous than anything else. Every joke was telegraphed in that “comedy roast” style that now seems to be a staple at every award ceremony going… Shame it only works when you have material and a sense of comic timing.
Still, maybe it was just Wossy’s stick I reasoned, yet it was clear that everything I held dear about comedy was dead when the description of Peter Kay & Michael Mcintyre as “giants” in the industry. Really? Those guys? Apparently so… All the real comedians are dead or have sold out, living in Los Angeles and only cropping up on the BBC to do travelogues or talk about their favourite wines. Even the iconoclastic Python team are now involved in television equivalent of valium. What went wrong?
There was nothing in this ceremony that could answer that question. Donal Macintyre came out and picked up that dwarf from Willow in a move that would have been deemed “a bit awkward” had it occurred on the Black And White Minstrel Show. Then they announced Michael Mcintyre, the comedic equivalent of Harry Enfield’s Tim Nice But Dim character, was the male comedian of the year. He was filming Britain’s Got Talent so couldn’t be there, showing he clearly has his priorities straight and is a proponent of the craft of comedy rather than just getting his fucking smug face everywhere. Literally, there hasn’t been this much over-exposure since Stalin came up with the idea of having his poster plastered everywhere to inspire the proles.
The show continued in a similar manner… David Mitchell was nominated for everything. Twice. A transvestite ran out of the crowd to snatch Harry Hill’s award in another painfully unfunny moment. Then the woman from Miranda, looking exactly like the transvestite that had surged from the crowd moments before, won best newcomer. I mean, come on… She gets a DRESS caught in CAR DOOR and it COMES OFF in public. It’s like “Some Mothers Do ‘Ave Em” with a female in the lead.
An overly long ode to someone who was involved with Last Of The Summer Wine was next up, in the lifetime achievement award, which is amazing in itself given that even its elderly audience breathed a sigh of relief into their respirators when it was taken off air. The biggest laugh anyone ever got from that show was when a cast member died, mainly because you could imagine their coffin being dropped by the people carrying it, flying down a hill and ending up in a river.
Charlie Brooker continued his descent into becoming the same sort of media twat he spent years slating in his television programmes when he accepted his award for Newswipe and thanking everyone at the BBC but calling his own team of staff “pricks”. Oh you Brooker… Is there anything you won’t say?
Long story short, it underlined what a terrible state of affairs British comedy is actually in. A bunch of toffs and media whores packed into a room, slapping each other on the back while they drown themselves in free booze, and not a single genuine talent among them. Terrifying really when you consider that there’s people such as Stewart Lee, Robert Newman and Mark Thomas all finding themselves marginalised in the current climate that allows talentless scum like James Corden to make a career of getting his stretch marks out for the cameras.
Still, at least some good will come of it. Victims of the Pseudobulbar Affect will have something to look forward to in the near future thanks to this video. It’s just a shame that the rest of us are completely fucked.