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.