Opinion: Men Aren't Funny

... said no one. Ever.

Feature by Vonny Moyes | 07 Apr 2014

Okay, here’s a thought: can we stop using the term ‘female comedians’? I see it everywhere, and it’s really starting to grate. This is show business, folks, not Attenborough – is the immediate telegraphing of species designation really necessary? Do we really need to add a descriptor to the latter to make it intelligible? Comedian – an entertainer whose act is designed to make an audience laugh. Why do we need to frame it with oestrogen?

It’s with a relatively heavy heart that I admit the word ‘comedienne’ often creeps its way into articles on my desk. With a trained and somewhat biased eye for such egregious gendering, the offending ‘enne’ is located with laser-like precision and is smote down with such controlled fury that I almost enjoy it. The culling of the comedy badger. The vaccine for showbiz polio. A borderline obsession that started with the obliteration of the word from Sarah Millican’s Wikipedia page. For those who don’t internet, or have somehow missed the Feminism 101 memo, it may seem irrelevant, and at best, a little curious; but this sneaky little suffix is symptomatic of something entirely more sinister.

Did you hear the one about the ‘female comedian’ who lost her gig? Her crime: possession of a uterus – with intent. Last month, comic Jenny Collier recently found herself on the end of Mirth Control’s (‘The UK's biggest independent comedy bookers‘!) mildly ‘inconvenient’ quality-control bayonett, as she was selectively purged from the roster for her daft decision to run with the two X chromosome thing. Even better was their attempt to break the news with such jejunity, a ‘soz’ or ‘LOL’ pegged on the end wouldn’t have looked out of place. (I’d go so far as to suggest you mentally edit one into the following statement to fully appreciate its absurdity.)

“The venue have decided that they don't want too many women on the bill, and unfortunately we need to take you out of this one. We hope that this doesn’t cause any inconvenience.”

Didn’t you know, Jen? The treehouse is just for boys: if you don’t have a willy, or at least prostate destined to kick it, you can’t come in.

As you might expect, this didn’t go down too well, but amongst the acrimony of an internet scorned, one noble comedy promoter/worryingly foolhardy human leapt to the defence of Mirth Control stating that he would do the same. Alluding to the fact that you can’t argue with taste. Some people don’t find women funny. Dig a little deeper and you’ll find Miranda Hart, for all her insight and erudite comment, admitting that she too feels a creeping anxiety when a fellow ovary-sporter takes the stage. Add to that esteemed polemicists like the late (great?) Christopher Hitchens theory on the feminine ‘humour gap’ – that our brain cells migrate to placentas, we give birth, children die, and we’re "ruled in any case by the moons and tides…"

Seriously.

We have a problem. And language is part of the problem.

I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit here. Trussing up gender bias as preference or biological default is not only a crap opinion, it’s fanning the embers of the wince-worthy 70s sexism the rest of us are desperately trying to stamp out. ‘Feminist comedy’ is enjoying a long-overdue moment in the sun – thanks to growing enlightenment in many of our fellow bipeds, that sex discrimination is pretty embarrassing, and increasingly lost on audiences who’ve heard it all before. Yes, we need our Bridget Christies, our Adrienne Truscotts and our Mary Bourkes, but let me tell you, it ain't nothing to do with their gender. These folks have something to say; something we haven’t all heard a million times before. And – quelle surprise! – it’s funny.

I know it’s a lot to ask, but is there any chance we could ignore the breasts, hips and hormones for a second? Could stop viewing ‘female comedians’ through their vaginas? (They’re not all that exciting, believe me.) I’m not a doctor, but I have it on good authority from someone who is, that not only is the ‘humour gland’ entirely fictitious, its majesty is not dictated by the contents of your Calvin Kleins. Or Mooncup.

The differences between men and women, eh?