Don't Make Me #


Time and again, I tell myself I won’t get sucked into playing hashtag word games on Twitter, and yet I still do.


It’s nigh on impossible to not think of at least one appropriate pun when you see the hashtag crop up - usually despite yourself - and once you’ve thought of it, you may as well post it. Then you may as well do another, until before you know it, it’s 4am and you’re still at it; it’s a slippery, sleep-deprived slope to coin an alliterative phrase.


They say puns are lazy writing and in many ways that’s true, but that doesn’t make coming up with a good example less satisfying. I imagine that’s the only chink of light in the dull, monotonous grind of a writer of Christmas cracker jokes that makes the rest of their shift bearable; it’s the sole thing that separates the talentless hack from the chip-shop-namer.

I just wish I could channel this dubious talent into something more lucrative. Perhaps I could get a job as Tim Vine’s ghostwriter; I may as well, since more than one reviewer’s made the connection, despite this being the antithesis of the type of comedy I try to present.


Ultimately, taking part so often is a bit of an affliction, but I suppose it could be worse; there are far more terrible ways to pass the time; you could be watching a compilation of James Corden’s most pointy-jumpy moments, and no-one wants to do that except for Corden himself; that man’s a conceited cunt.

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