Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse (9 page)

But when Freegard says, “The type of jokes aimed at dads would be banned if they were aimed at women, ethnic minorities
or religious groups,” she has got a point – just not the one she thinks she’s got. Men and fathers are so favoured in our society, the world is weighted so much to their advantage, that comedy writers can safely make them the perpetual butt of jokes. The fact that Homer Simpson is the funniest, most prominent and most popular character in that show says far more about the continued male dominance of money and power in the west than his fecklessness or misfortunes say about the undervaluing of paternal effort.

Comedy is a misère bid – to be the biggest loser is to win. If a time comes when incompetent or hapless women are humorously depicted as often as their male equivalents, then the distorting fairground mirror of comedy might at last be reflecting a just world.

On the occasion of the first anniversary of the 2013 horsemeat scandal …

One year ago today the horsemeat scandal broke, when the Food Safety Authority of Ireland reported that horse DNA had been found in some beef burgers – or, depending on your point of view, that some horse burgers had been mislabelled. This wasn’t to be an isolated incident. In the weeks that followed, a bewildering array of ground cow products tested positive for ground horse. It seemed that there was hardly a manufacturer or retailer in the British Isles that hadn’t been cutting its sirloin with fetlock.

Horses had thoroughly contaminated the food chain. “What an oddly large animal to have infested so many factories,” we thought. It’s easy to envisage how mice, cockroaches or flies can sneak into dirty or badly maintained facilities to feed and breed – but horses? Surely they must have left traces, hoofprints in
the butter? Why had no one smelt a rat? Perhaps because of the overpowering stench of horse.

The scandal climaxed with the news that some Findus lasagnes were found to contain 100% horsemeat. They were absolutely all horse. Not a scrap of beef had made it in. In a sense, this made Findus the worst offender. But, looked at from a different angle, it was cause for hope: restricting products to one type of meat was achievable, it seemed. If Findus could only repeat with beef this remarkable success with horse, then all would be well.

As a comedian, I am extremely glad that this all happened. To my mind, there is little to be regretted about this widespread equine malpractice and a great deal to be celebrated. This was extremely funny news and I am convinced it will have brought immeasurably more pleasure to many more people than all of the grotty ready meals that were recalled could ever have done had they solely contained ground-up cartilage and ligament of the advertised species rather than the macerated fragments of other, more glamorous, quadrupeds.

You may disagree with my definition of funny news. What’s funny about incompetence, malpractice and dishonesty in the preparation of our food, you might ask. You might think this is simply a grim example of something going seriously wrong. Funny news, you might say, is when Boris Johnson gets his balls caught in a harness or Kanye West sues the online currency “Coinye West” for exploiting his image.

In my experience, news like that is too obviously amusing to be lastingly funny. You can’t make a joke about it because the story is already a joke. You can laugh once, because it’s daft, then it’s over. But the horsemeat scandal kept on giving. It was proper news that deserved coverage – but no one had died and several large and unappealing corporations were left with egg on their faces. Well, they said it was egg.

Audiences love jokes about this sort of thing. It’s not just a YouTube clip of a gibbon sneezing and it’s not Syria. It’s serious enough for the act of joking to seem slightly irreverent, but not serious enough for anyone (other than those with no intention of ever being amused by anything) actually to be offended. It’s part of a nation’s shared experience and laughing about it brings us together, like a family swapping anecdotes about a tipsy uncle.

I’ve noticed a few subjects like this over the years. Liberal-leaning Radio 4-type studio audiences absolutely never tire of derogatory references to the
Daily Mail
, for example. There need be nothing incisive or new in the joke, but you can guarantee a supportive laugh by questioning that newspaper’s honesty, accuracy or goodwill, or mentioning once again its former warm regard for Hitler.

The excessive distances between the small airports sometimes used by budget airlines and the cities those airlines have advertised as their destination are also a reliable source of collective amusement. You have only to imply that Ryanair won’t necessarily drop you off right in the centre of Paris and people will guffaw and crow as if a great and brand-new injustice has just been spotted for the very first time and simultaneously comprehensively dealt with.

In my view, the horsemeat thing is one of the greatest. It has obvious advantages. “Horse” is a funny word – only one syllable, and it’s a corker. The idea of people having eaten something without realising it is inherently comic. The deep solemnity of some of those who rightly pointed out how worrying it is that we’ve so lost touch with where our food comes from that we can’t even be sure of what noise it once made is apt to make people giggly. And the palpable desperation of the likes of Tesco, Iceland, Lidl and Findus that this whole thing should be forgotten makes hearing it repeatedly brought up intensely pleasurable. It will be decades before the words “Tesco” and “horse” stop getting a laugh just for being spoken in the same
sentence – and that fact, and how infuriating the PR people at Tesco must find it, is itself hilarious.

British Rail used to be the acme of this sort of thing. As a nation we spent decades sharing a laugh at the inadequacies of British Rail with its lateness, dirtiness, rudeness and terrible sandwiches. The failings in our rail network were a shared collective reflection on our failings as a community. British Rail was crap because everything was crap, because we were also, individually and collectively, a bit crap – laughable and decrepit and doomed, like all humans have always been. But somehow redeemed by our capacity to self-mock.

The dissolution and sale of British Rail, transforming it into a disjointed network charging exorbitant prices for an unimproved and still taxpayer-subsidised service, darkened the joke a bit much for popular tastes. We stopped chuckling. It was like the tipsy uncle had assaulted a receptionist.

So let’s cling to horsegate for as long as we can. You never know where the next bit of funny news is coming from. Although, I must say, François Hollande is doing his bit by being motorcycle-couriered to an actress’s bed in the full view of the global media. I might well be celebrating that one in a year’s time – because if there’s one thing British audiences enjoy laughing at even more than their own failings, the rapacity of corporations or xenophobia in the
Daily Mail
, it’s the French.

If I told you that extreme rightwing activists were using a googly-eyed character with a weird flapping mouth to try and build their support base, you’d probably tell me to stop being rude about Nigel Farage. Or applaud me for being rude about Nigel Farage. But for once I’m not slagging off Ukip’s straight-talking bitter drinker. I’m referring to someone who, as far as we know,
has never touched beer or cigarettes, which is probably a good thing as he seems to have rather an addictive personality. It’s the Cookie Monster from
Sesame Street
, surely the world’s most lovable personification of an eating disorder, whose image has been adopted by a group of German neo-Nazis in an attempt to recruit children.

“But how is this allowed?” you’re probably asking. It isn’t. Steffen Lange, who walked into a school playground in Brandenburg dressed as the Cookie Monster and started handing out neo-Nazi leaflets, has been arrested by the German police. I don’t know whether the producers of
Sesame Street
are planning legal action but I imagine they’d have a case. Maybe they don’t think there’s much point since, as TV programmes go,
Sesame Street
is about as likely to be mistaken for being pro-Nazi as
Dad’s Army
.

Then again, this wasn’t an isolated incident: Cookie Monster-themed rightwing pamphlets were subsequently discovered at Lange’s home, and the police have confirmed that the blue fluffy problem-eater’s image is increasingly being abused by the region’s far right to try and drum up support. A police spokesman speculated that it was an attempt to make neo-Nazism seem “a bit fun and a bit rebellious”.

This is a fascinating strategy – and an insight into the mindset of the modern fascist. The Cookie Monster is anarchic, dynamic and madly driven by a very specific, but also totally random, aim: he wants cookies. He wants to charge around crazily smashing cookies into his mouth. He will never get enough cookies. It’s unclear whether he understands this. Maybe he imagines some future stage of sated calm which he might achieve if, miraculously, he were to obtain all the cookies he desires. Or maybe he is wiser than that and knows it’s all about the journey, his endless quest for biscuits.

These extremists’ message is clear: that’s what it’s like to be a neo-Nazi. It’s not mean, harsh and judgmental – not primarily,
that’s just a side-effect. It’s wild, active and devil-may-care. And violent – but it’s not about whom the violence is directed at, that’s not important. It’s about the sensual joy of the violence itself. It’s fun, dynamic, outdoorsy and liberated. Those who get hurt are collateral damage – hence the usefulness of a rationale by which hurting them is either good or irrelevant. As long as you see Jews and Gypsies as only so many cookies to be ground up in a cloth mouth, rather than as actual people, then it’s all good clean fun.

You can’t say this doesn’t tap into a side of humanity that has always existed. Since the dawn of time, there have been plenty of us who just love running around and smashing things and people to bits. Think of the Vikings. They sailed around, pillaging, burning and looting, for centuries. They did it out of economic necessity; they did it out of greed; they did it out of hatred for other races and religions. But many of them must also have done it for fun. Some of those great warriors – skilled seamen and fearless soldiers – must have loved that life, loved running up to a coastal village and unleashing carnage.

Don’t focus on our specific unpalatable views, Herr Lange and his colleagues are saying, focus on the thrill. There’s something more primal in the appeal of extremist politics than any of its ostensible beliefs or policies – and the sensation is a lot like running around shouting “Cooookiiiiieeeessss!!!!!” For so long considered monsters by the political mainstream, these rightwingers are finally coming clean: “That’s exactly what we are!” they’re admitting. “Cuddly mindless monsters – and it feels amazing!”

But will they take these intriguing new recruitment tactics further? How else might fascists perk up their image now they’re dispensing with all the tiresome Teutonic discipline and hate-sponsored pseudo-science and returning to their berserker roots?

Can you imagine the Cookie Monster listening to Wagner, a nationalistic anthem or a marching band? Of course not – he’s far too fidgety. The modern neo-Nazi wants a tune that’s a lot more energetic and fun: Yakety Sax, Killing in the Name or the theme from
Ski Sunday
are all perfect upbeat accompaniments to any frenzy of hate.

Everyone knows that extremists say horrible things on social media, but a hashtag is a great way to put even the most vile remarks into a more upbeat context. Threats of violence in particular can be leavened if made cartoonish with postscripts such as #biff, #blam, #kersplat or #everydayracism.

The black shirt and the brown shirt, those staples of the fascists’ glory days, have been lost to the jazz musician and the 1978 Coventry City away strip respectively (I used the internet in the preparation of this section). And anyway, they’re far too staid for the wacky fascism of the Cookie Monster Nazis. So what about Hawaiian shirts? They’re fun, they’re crazy, they’re slightly anarchic (within blandly uninventive parameters) and, like pineapple on a pizza, they provide the sort of meaningless nod to multiculturalism that helps less committed racists salve their lacerated consciences.

How better to separate actions from any sense of their meaning than with dance? The global success of Gangnam Style has shown the way. The extreme right needs to move on from the discredited fascist salute and develop some new gesture or move which can be aped by millions on YouTube. Something like a double thumbs-up
while running on the spot, David Brent’s dance from
The Office
or just a spot of rhythmic mooning would be ideal.

The choice of the Cookie Monster suggests that, at a time when
The Great British Bake-Off
has both made baking trendy and aligned it with a sense of national identity, the far right wants to reclaim the fascist oven from the shadow of Auschwitz. But, unlike their mascot, modern neo-Nazis don’t just like cookies – they’re into cakes, pies and puddings, but not soufflés, which are homosexual. An inspiring recipe book could be the
Mein Kampf
of the 21st century, providing busy racists with the perfect high-carb treat to set them up for a night’s angry shouting outside a mosque.

On reading that
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
has ended its final run, I was amazed to find myself caring. To my surprise, it made me sad. I didn’t know I gave a damn about that show – I certainly never particularly enjoyed it – but it turns out I’d been quietly assuming that it would continue and, unbeknownst to my conscious brain, deriving comfort from that assumption. Suddenly it was gone and I missed it, like an old pot plant that you only remember is there when it dies.

Mind you, I’m glad I didn’t watch it more – on the dozen or so occasions I caught an episode, I mildly regretted the time spent. It wasn’t very entertaining, just moreish – the televisual equivalent of Twiglets. You grimly munched through it because, for some reason, it seemed easier than not.