The death of the joke

Michael Bywater mourns its passing.

Jokeworld is increasingly deserted, like a faded resort. It was a small place, Jokeworld, thinly populated but heterodox, with far more than its fair share of Jews (including God), Irishmen, Pakistanis, bartenders, judges, performing dogs, viola players, hookers, blondes and doctors. And now its day is done. If comedians, negotiating on our behalf with the slithering, ironical ambiguities of life, are the postmodern priesthood, then the joke itself is the brutal animal sacrifice of an earlier faith. There are squeals in jokes, and blood and sawdust, and people get hurt. The joke is unequivocal. The joke says: "You didn't see that coming; you were wrong; now atone, with laughter." Postmodern comedy says: "You know what I mean? Don't you so agree? Aren't we so in this together?" Jokes, in a society based on the idea of relativism and the elision of differences, are just so 1958.