Lillibet of a Wisecrack.
While watching
that bastion of Saturday night entertainment ‘The National Lottery: In
It To Win It’ yesterday, I inadvertently came up with my own joke.
A contestant called Anthony was in Dale’s Red Area at the time – no comment – who had to get the following question right to be released:
The answer, of
course, was Corgi, which gave me a sudden burst of inspiration that led to this:
My God, my
synapses were firing last night.
This tweet was of
note as, despite being a comedian, I don't really write jokes;
not in the literal sense, at least. I’ve only written three in the past, which is probably why I’m still relatively unknown (or known only by my relatives).
The reason for my
zero-to-none gag productivity is simple: I don’t like them. I tire of them very
easily. The odd pun or two is fine in its place, but a straightforward joke
will more likely provoke a groan from me than a laugh, as it’s too obviously
staged, forced or placed. They may be to other people’s taste, but they don’t
suit me. In other words, I’m a miserable git.
Despite being
anti-one-liner, I was proud of my little royal jest, particularly as Her Maj's recently record-breaking reign had almost made it topical. That was until I
Googled ‘Corgi and Bess’ this morning and found this book:
This proves that
whatever idea you come up with, someone probably already got there first. At
least I hadn’t started scoring my proposed comedy opera just yet.
