What Happened to British Political Comedy?

British political comedy is an endangered species. An impending series of Black Mirror in early 2016 cannot hide the worrying dearth of social commentary in today’s offerings. Armando Iannucci lies dormant, Chris Morris is hibernating and Citizen Smith has been resuscitated purely to mock Jeremy Corbyn. Stand-up, safe sitcoms and panel shows numerically engulf political comedies and dominate television schedules. In our politically turbulent era, there should be a glut of programmes savaging political idiocy with humour, yet we have almost none to namecheck. Why?

Across the pond, American comedians and script-writers don’t hesitate to openly confront big contemporary issues. The brilliant Bojack Horseman wraps a sophisticated portrayal of an emotionally damaged post-celebrity figure in a surreal, postmodern motif. The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt revolves around Kimmy and roommate Titus Andromedon’s loveably dysfunctional friendship, as pertinent concerns surrounding gender and race blend seamlessly with oft covered themes like the bane of rent. Master of None is an intriguing comedy which uses familiar sitcom tropes like job hunting to analyse the American immigrant story and mixed-race relationships without sanctimony. Over here, we have Josh, that well known scourge of the Westminster elite.

Social commentary doesn’t have to be explicitly political like the much missed The Thick of It. Utopia is the under-valued treasure in Channel 4’s bank vault, its dystopian amalgamation of politics, black comedy, sci-fi and drama proving too hallucinatory and conspiracy-theory heavy to prick mainstream conscience. At the risk of sounding like a jaded pubjockey, no one appears interested in writing politically motivated material anymore, subtle or blunt. Despite Westminster gifting art scandal after debacle since David Cameron became Prime Minister, we’re mostly given fleeting snipes at political mishaps, rather than scripts declaring open warfare on corruption. The omni-funny Peep Show always contains witty allusions to current news, but openly political shows have had mixed fortunes in terms of combining humour and fighting injustice.

The Revolution will be Televised was always informative, infrequently irreverent and mildly controversial. 10 O’Clock Live, now a nostalgia-stained memory, petered out having promised so much in the first series. Only The Mill, a Channel 4 period drama about the struggle of mill workers in Quarry Bank Mill in Cheshire in the 1830s dared to tackle political issues unapologetically. It covered the mill workers’ struggle to abolish child labour laws and improve working conditions, but was prematurely cancelled and left unfinished. It also wasn’t a comedy.

The fact that it was jettisoned before it properly concluded suggests interest wasn’t there because it was too heavy going. A gaping, Thick of It shaped hole now exists and does not look like it’ll be filled any time soon.

Perhaps helplessness from cyclical injustice has castrated the acerbic pulse. Politics can famously kill a conversation, and broadcasters seem to reflect that by approving cotton-wool funnies over Chris Morris style comedies. The cacophonous hysteria that would emanate from the Tory press over a new Brass Eye would strike England deaf, blind and dumb, which is exactly what is needed, but what do we as an audience expect from joke-laden social commentary?

Rebellious misfits have always sheltered in art because humour can expose wrongdoing in a way a columnist cannot. The avant-garde believed the spread of knowledge would result in intellectual enlightenment leading to positive social transformation, but after countless impressive works injustice endures in new and more terrifying forms. Social commentary elicits spikes of interest in politics rather than mass waves of enfranchisement. A new programme will not suddenly provoke a socialist revolution. In fact, it is more likely to do the opposite: The Thick of It openly showed how unelected spin doctors commandeered the New Labour government, but somehow endeared us to corrosive personalities like Malcolm Tucker.

Satire exposed injustice but made us more sympathetic to the establishment by showing the human side of a profession we love to criticise. Still, learning and laughing went hand in hand as satire equipped us with the knowledge to combat lies encountered on Question Time. Could this be a symptom of the wider malaise gripping left-wing and progressive thinking, evident in the capitulation of social democratic parties across Europe? The link could be stronger than we think.

We need a successor to the great satire of the past now more than ever. Political comedies are a brilliant alternative to horribly orchestrated mock interviews on the BBC’s The Daily Politics. Self-deprecation and satire are precious tools in the fight against apathy and can broaden the appeal of politics.