It was a late night for an eight-year-old. Nearly 11:30pm in New York City, and my older brother was shaking me awake. “Hey. Get up,” he urged, aged thirteen. “It’s on now.” Back then, without the luxury of TV recording, you had to be glued to the screen precisely when the broadcast dictated. My brother had something specific he wanted me to witness – something he deemed ugly, cruel, wrong, and undeniably dangerous. The classical music concert or news program concluded, replaced by a man missing teeth, a nude figure grinning at me as he played the pipe organ on our television set. That moment, as jarring as it was, irrevocably altered my perspective, my young mind, to borrow a phrase, becoming “something completely different.”
Our local public broadcasting station, dedicated to arts and entertainment, was airing a program called Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Like millions of Americans my age, I was instantly captivated. American comedy at that time felt stiflingly bland. We were fed a diet of situation comedies featuring impossibly attractive families navigating minor infractions, invariably concluding with a saccharine, valuable lesson. It was a predictable, tedious formula.
Now, I understand that the American sketch comedy show Saturday Night Live is making its debut in the UK, where I currently reside. I wish them every success, because, in my opinion, the UK is definitively funnier than the United States. The sharp, often biting humour found in shows like Fawlty Towers or The Inbetweeners possesses a depth of cruelty that far surpasses the morally upright, often bland American fare.
I was spoon-fed on pablum like Diff’rent Strokes, The Brady Bunch, and Leave it to Beaver. Consequently, I genuinely believed that “comedy” was an endless stream of mildly amusing morality plays, where families would offer polite nods and vague smiles through safe, mediocre entertainment while digesting their dinners. Throughout those formative years, sitcoms were often advertised with promotional teasers following a predictable script: “Tonight, on a very special episode of [Sitcom Name], [Lead Character] learns a valuable lesson about [AIDS, drugs, immigration, or racism.] Ha ha.”
There were, of course, occasional glimmers of light in the United States’ comedy desert. Shows like The Bob Newhart Show and The Mary Tyler Moore Show were exceptions that, ironically, proved the rule of mediocrity. In stark contrast, British sitcoms often revel in the inherent flaws of human beings, never offering easy resolutions or character improvement. Basil Fawlty will eternally be seen wrestling with his car and a branch, and the hapless lads in The Inbetweeners will never magically transform into suave, well-behaved gentlemen. The premise of Men Behaving Badly is precisely that – men will always behave badly. Were such a show to be remade in America (and indeed, it was, and poorly at that), it would likely be titled Men Will Behave Better, with a subtly altered narrative. Absolutely Fabulous, in an American reimagining, might even be presented as an educational film about the perils of child abuse and neglect. The characters in these comedies are not to be emulated; this is not a guide for behaviour.
Even the younger characters in British comedy are often depicted as thoroughly unlikeable. The young rogues in The Inbetweeners hurled insults like “bus wankers” at those simply using public transport. One of the most audacious and celebrated moments in British comedy history was the Monty Python troupe concluding their masterpiece with a crucifixion scene – a testament to the sheer audacity and cruelty of their humour.
The Unattracting Appeal of British Comedy
American comedy also suffers from a perceived lack of funniness due to its inherent attractiveness. Let’s be frank: we are simply too good-looking on television. This might sound like an apology, but it’s a genuine observation. Pretty faces, while perhaps pleasing to the eye, are not inherently comedic. I’m sure Friends was a massive hit in the US; I recall being swept up in its popularity while living in New York. However, my actual friends bore little resemblance to the impossibly glamorous cast. I knew no one who looked that good, nor did I know anyone who knew anyone who looked that good.
In contrast, your sitcom characters are, by and large, not conventionally attractive. And that, I contend, is a wonderful thing. Comedy is not a beauty contest, even though so many other aspects of life seem to be.
Satire Knows No Bounds: War, Royals, and Shakespeare
Furthermore, British comedy often delves into the obscure. I vividly recall watching a Python sketch titled the Summarise Proust Competition. At eleven years old, I had no idea who “Proust” was. Generally speaking, British comedy frequently requires footnotes. To truly appreciate a rant by David Mitchell, for instance, one needs at least a rudimentary knowledge of the Battle of Stalingrad, the history of the British Monarchy, and a fundamental understanding that the trajectory of history often bends towards sheer incompetence.
America, however, opted for a more broadly accessible comedic approach. While this strategy undoubtedly leads to greater popularity and profitability, it often sacrifices genuine comedic depth. Much like our mass-produced and mass-consumed industries, American television comedy has historically targeted the centre of society, aiming for the middle class. This demographic, as Ernest Hemingway once wryly observed, is characterised by “middle management, broad lawns, and narrow minds” – a less aspirational outlook than their British counterparts.
Britain, conversely, has consistently chosen to satirise very specific segments of the population. While they have certainly mastered the nuances of office and family life, they have also fearlessly tackled subjects like both World Wars (Blackadder Goes Forth, Dad’s Army, ‘Allo ‘Allo), the private life of Shakespeare’s family (Upstart Crow), and ancient Rome (Up Pompeii). Since the early 2000s, there has been a proliferation of game and panel shows dedicated to unearthing the most obscure facts imaginable, such as Pointless and QI. Even the seemingly mundane quiz show Countdown manages to extract humour from mathematics and anagrams. We simply don’t have equivalent panel shows because our well-known personalities often possess degrees in broadcast communications rather than exhibiting genuine wit or intellectual curiosity.
So, to summarise, your comedy is superior because you are morally corrupt, pretentious, and, dare I say, aesthetically challenged.
The American Renaissance and its Fading Light
America did, however, fight back. Our comedic landscape experienced a significant revival, largely spearheaded by animation. Shows like The Simpsons and South Park introduced us to the most depraved and self-centred creatures imaginable, presented in almost human form. The fact that these were animated productions lent them an even greater sense of transgression, as animation had long been considered a medium for children. The nihilistic brilliance of Seinfeld (and its spiritual successor, Curb Your Enthusiasm) brought unapologetic and irredeemable villainy into our living rooms for entertainment. For a period, it genuinely felt as though humour was flourishing on both sides of the Atlantic.
Then, around 2012, the laughter began to falter. The economic model of comedy started to buckle; the international distribution of clever wordplay and culturally specific stereotypes proved to be a significant limitation.
Worse still, both cultures seemed to develop a collective conscience, and neither country appears to be particularly funny on television anymore. We are constantly reminded that comedy should not “punch down,” but in these contemporary times, I fear most broadcasting organisations are hesitant to punch at all.
The Enduring Laughter in New Media
Perhaps comedy is not entirely dead. It’s possible that the inherent cruelty of British humour is being re-channelled into a new, more cynical genre – what was once termed black comedy. Shows like Succession, Black Mirror, and Slow Horses possess comedic elements, yet they transcend the label of mere comedies. They offer something more profound and instructive, a duality that is both valuable and, in a strange way, disappointing. Comedy, after all, should be able to exist for its own sake, complete with its own persona and theatricality.
For the present moment, I find my dose of British humour in newer forms of media. The QI podcast, No Such Thing as a Fish, is a regular listen, and Instagram influencers like Very British Problems offer a glimmer of hope, demonstrating that mirth can still be found in the everyday facts and eccentricities of the world around us. And, of course, I still occasionally revisit the classics like Monty Python, a welcome reminder of the wonderfully incorrigible nature of humanity.
