Valentine's Special: You are writing the perfect joke
A one-off journey of hilarity on this most romantic day
Today is Valentine’s Day, a day of love, and there is no love like the love of a perfect joke. Here, then, is a treat, the email equivalent of a box of chocolates and a small cuddly snow leopard holding an “I Wuv You” sign: the tale of how you too can write a life-changingly excellent joke.
First, have a shower while extremely tired. Try not to do your usual thing of having imaginary arguments and getting even more stressed. Instead, stand beneath the flowing water staring at nothing, detaching from everything — even the passage of time itself. A joke will arrive in your mind, feeling fully-formed and perfect.
Imagine if Simon Cowell was called Simon Trowell — I could dig that!
For a split second, you feel incredible. What a joke. What a magnificent joke. Digging something can also mean liking it! Astonishing. This might be the one, the one that finally gets you where you’re meant to be! You don’t quite know where that is, but you know for sure you aren’t there! It’s something involving an important person laughing so hard at one of your jokes that they offer you a mortgage-finishing amount of money for, well, you aren’t quite sure what, but it’ll be good. Something like, “I loved this joke so much that here is four hundred thousand pounds for, perhaps, a book or something, only if you want to though, no worries.” This’ll be the one that makes that happen!
Except — oh no, oh no, not today, no, no, no — you don’t dig a trowel. You dig with a trowel. The joke is flawed, the dream is over. Get out of the shower and continue with your day, never quite able to focus on the task at hand. Linger at a green light. Allow a meal to burn. Snap at your family. Then:
Imagine if the captain of the Apollo 13 mission, Jim Lovell, was called Jim Shovell. I could dig that!
Punch the air in delight and eat two Double Deckers in the garage where nobody can see you. Feel a strange and glorious energy coursing through your veins as you unload the tumble drier, picturing yourself sitting in a big fancy chair in a special room surrounded by framed pictures of yourself being successful. Then! Crash dismally as you realise you’ve made the same mistake. You don’t dig a shovel, you dig with a shovel. Throw the crumpled laundry onto the sofa in a huff, breathe heavily for three or four minutes then begin folding it, your teeth gritted, your heart rate in the low hundreds. But suddenly!
Imagine if the Notorious B.I.G. was called the Notorious J.C.B. I could dig that!
You are your own worst enemy. Everything that is wrong, you have made wrong. Every flaw is yours. The reason there are wars and diseases is because you are stupid and ugly. You are misery. You spread failure and sadness. You don’t dig a JCB, you dig with a JCB! With it. You are a monster, a beast. You belong in a sewer, and not a good one. You should live out your wretched life as a hermit in the disused tire factory on the outskirts of town. You don’t dig a JCB, you ridiculous pig. But!
Imagine if Dame Judi Dench was called Dame Judi Trench. I could dig that!
You’ve done it. By god, you’ve done it. Any minute now your bank manager will text you, telling you do do whatever you like forever. You’ll get an email from Live At The Apollo saying a limousine is on its way. All the girls you fancied while doing your GCSEs will finally put out that collective statement to say they all fancied you as well, actually. Imagine if Dame Judi Dench was called Dame Judi Trench. You could, indeed, dig that. That’s great stuff. That’s really great stuff. You go to bed, but do not sleep. You never sleep. Not when the world needs laughter.
If you enjoyed this, thanks. Please share it with people, or commission me for some work, or PayPal me £5.30 for a delicious pint of Kronenbourg. Less of a fan of this? No worries, normal, monthly, joke-filled service will resume on March 1st. Cheers loads.