Why British Marxists Think They Are Funny And Why They Try So Hard
Somewhere between a Guardian reader’s meetup and a WhatsApp group titled “Late Stage Neoliberalism Innit,” a dream was born. In this dream, wit is currency, sarcasm is infrastructure, and the ability to craft a clever tweet is considered a marketable trade skill. The modern British progressive imagination has quietly built a world where being funny is not just a personality trait, but a CV, a moral credential, and possibly a substitute for knowing how to properly queue.
This phenomenon recently crystallized around well-intentioned political jokes that spectacularly missed the mark, where the desperation to land a perfect zinger collided with the basic requirement of accuracy. The jokes spread through Twitter like wildfire, fact-checking arrived like a damp squib, and the cycle continued undeterred.
This is not to say they are not funny. Often they are. Sometimes alarmingly so. But the effort behind it has the frantic energy of someone attempting to navigate a roundabout whilst everyone watches. The humour is not just humour. It is performance art with a thesis statement.
Below is a field guide to the phenomenon.
When Marxist Punchlines Replace Policy
1. The Ratio As Referendum
They believe that getting 50,000 likes on a joke about housing policy is functionally equivalent to actually building housing. The algorithm has spoken. Democracy is three laughing emojis and a retweet from a blue tick account. Planning permission can wait; this tweet is performing exceptionally well in the 25-34 demographic.
2. The Footnote Flex
Every joke comes with citations like a peer-reviewed journal article had a baby with a Have I Got News For You script. The humour is there, buried somewhere beneath seven hyperlinks and a parenthetical clarification about historical context. “LOL (see: Smith, 2019; also cf. the Treaty of Westphalia for comparative framework).” The laugh arrives three minutes after the setup, wheezing and clutching a bibliography.
3. PowerPoint Punchlines
Ask them to explain their position on the NHS and you receive a forty-slide deck with custom animations and at least six different fonts. Slide 23 is just the word “NEOLIBERALISM” exploding into confetti. Slide 31 includes a graph that is technically accurate but also somehow a visual pun. The policy itself remains unclear, but the transitions between slides are chef’s kiss.
4. The Workshop That Never Ends
Somewhere a focus group has been testing the same political slogan for six months. It started as “Healthcare is a human right” and is now “The NHS: Like Human Rights, But For Your Body (Pending Further Consultation).” Twelve drafts. Forty-three revisions. Zero progress. But the wordplay in version 7c really landed with the creative team, so there is hope.
5. Dunking As Democracy
Political discourse has been replaced by an elaborate game of “own the opponent with a sick burn.” Whoever crafts the most devastating comeback wins the argument, regardless of factual accuracy or policy merit. Truth is negotiable. Timing is everything. Someone literally keeps score. There is a leaderboard. Parliamentary procedure has been replaced by “and everyone clapped” energy. The policy debate concludes not with a vote, but with someone saying “ABSOLUTELY RATTLED” in all caps.
Comedy As A Job Substitute
In many circles, humour has replaced the traditional concept of employment. Why learn a proper trade when you can dismantle a Tory MP with a three line joke that gets 40,000 likes? One involves actual labour, the other involves puns, and only one of those earns applause at the local cafe. The dream is simple. If the joke is good enough, maybe the council tax will sense it and pay itself. Spoiler: it will not. But the dopamine hit from the retweets might help you forget that for approximately eleven minutes. Long enough to queue for a flat white.
The Manifesto That Turned Into A Panel Show
Great political movements once began with pamphlets and philosophical treatises. Now they begin with “Right, quick bit idea.” The line between activist meeting and Mock the Week writers’ room has blurred so completely that nobody is sure whether they are planning social change or perfecting a topical joke. Somewhere a whiteboard reads “End inequality” and underneath it, “Punchline still needs work.” The revolution will be workshopped. Probably on Radio 4.
Sarcasm As Renewable Energy
If sarcasm could be hooked to the National Grid, energy prices would plummet forever. The sheer volume produced daily could power three cities and a podcast studio in Shoreditch. It is clean, abundant, and devastatingly dry. Unfortunately, sarcasm cannot fix a pothole, no matter how withering the delivery. Though someone is probably drafting a Medium piece about why infrastructure metaphors are inherently classist.
The Shed Discourse
Ask someone handy to build a shed and you get a shed. Ask a British progressive to build a shed and you get a 12 part thread about the emotional labour of DIY and how the shed exists within a broader narrative of garden privilege and the colonial history of timber extraction. By the end, no shed. But tremendous engagement. The thread gets bookmarked by 400 people who also will never build a shed but deeply appreciate the intersectional framework.
Tote Bag Industrial Complex
They may not run factories, but they do mass produce ironic canvas accessories at a rate that would impress the Victorians. Every bag contains a slogan, a pun, and the faint scent of ethical superiority purchased from a charity shop in Hackney. The tote bag is both container and manifesto. It carries shopping from Waitrose and grief about fast fashion. It judges your plastic whilst holding organic vegetables that cost more than a train ticket to Birmingham.
Comedy Gig As Question Time
Comedy clubs in certain postcodes feel like political panel shows with drink specials. Each performer steps up to the microphone to deliver a policy disguised as a joke. Applause is the new parliamentary majority. Hecklers are considered backbenchers. Someone in the corner is definitely taking notes for their PhD on satire and neoliberalism.
The Thread That Ate The Evening
Dinner used to end with pudding. Now it ends with someone saying, “Actually, I have thoughts on that,” and unlocking a speech that could qualify as an Open University module. The humour arrives eventually, like a replacement bus service, after several stops at historical context and a brief detour through post-colonial theory. The punchline is well researched. Citations included. No refunds on your evening.
Roasting Oligarchs, Burning Toast
They cannot operate a toaster without setting off the smoke alarm, but they can roast an oligarch so thoroughly that the metaphor comes with garnish and a side of moral clarity. Culinary skills are optional when verbal seasoning is this strong. The kitchen may be chaos, but the takedown is perfectly plated. Mary Berry would be horrified by the Victoria sponge but impressed by the rhetoric.
Policy Questions, Comedy Answers
Ask for a five year economic plan and you will receive a tight seven minute set with callbacks. There will be timing, structure, and an emotionally satisfying closer that references something from the beginning. There will not be a spreadsheet. But the transitions are flawless. The political satire is on point. The actual policy remains theoretical. Someone will definitely say “to be fair” at least twice.
Streaming Service Exception Clause
Corporations are the problem, except for Channel 4 when it produced their favourite satirical documentary. That broadcaster is brave, visionary, and possibly misunderstood. Capitalism is terrible unless it funds a clever limited series with subtitles. Then it is complicated. Very complicated. Please do not cancel the licence fee whilst we figure this out.
Emotional Labour As Park Run
Some people do actual exercise. Others shoulder the emotional burden of explaining the political symbolism in a John Lewis Christmas advert. The latter requires stamina, hydration, and a willingness to shout “context matters” before tea. No gym membership required, just a broadband connection and possibly a degree in cultural studies. Personal best: explaining why a Cadbury’s ad is actually about neoliberal atomisation in under three minutes.
Zingers Over Planning Permission
Council meetings are filled with dry discussions about local infrastructure. Meanwhile, the group chat is ablaze with jokes about infrastructure. One might improve roads, the other improves morale. Guess which one gets more engagement. Local government participation is down but reaction GIFs are through the roof.
The Olympics Of Cleverness
Preparation for elections involves canvassing, fundraising, and policy proposals. It also involves workshopping one line insults as if a gold medal depends on it. The tone is competitive, the stakes are imaginary, the pride is real. Somewhere a coach whispers, “Sharper, but kind.” The political insult has become an art form with judges, scorecards, and probably a Radio 4 documentary series.
Art That Comforts And Slightly Irritates
Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. The current model often mildly irritates both whilst being extremely clever about it. Viewers leave the Barbican saying, “I did not enjoy that, but I respect the joke density and the use of found materials.” Respect is the new laughter. Five stars for craft, two stars for accessibility, would recommend with extensive caveats and a trigger warning.
When Wit Becomes A Worldview
Underneath the punchlines is a sincere belief that cleverness signals moral fitness. If you can make the right joke, you must have the right answers. Humour becomes a sorting hat for virtue. Policy is complicated. A good joke feels decisive. It provides the illusion of understanding wrapped in the comfort of shared laughter and possibly a reference to The Thick of It.
The Deeper Dream Behind The Jokes
At the heart of all this effort is not laziness, but hope. The hope that intelligence can be entertaining. That criticism can be digestible. That laughter might sneak ideas past defences that facts cannot breach. It is persuasion wearing a clown nose, juggling footnotes whilst balancing on a unicycle made of good intentions.
Trying hard to be funny is not a flaw. It is a strategy. A slightly frantic, over-caffeinated strategy fuelled by oat milk lattes, but a strategy nonetheless.
Humour feels like influence you can hold in your hand. A joke lands immediately. A policy takes years and still might fail. One gives you a roomful of laughter tonight. The other gives you a select committee hearing next spring. Guess which one is more emotionally rewarding.
So they polish the punchlines. They revise the tweets. They treat irony like a civic duty, possibly more important than voting in local elections. Somewhere between satire and sincerity, they build a version of politics that runs on wordplay and shared recognition. It may not repair the railways, but it builds community, one callback at a time.
And honestly, that dream is not entirely ridiculous. It is just incomplete. Wit can open a door, but eventually someone has to fix the hinges with actual tools rather than a well-timed reference to Yes Minister. Still, until the toolbox arrives, the jokes will keep coming, finely tuned, slightly over-explained, and delivered with the earnest belief that if the laugh is big enough, maybe the world shifts an inch. The workshop continues. The punchlines sharpen. The tote bags multiply. And somewhere, a whiteboard still reads “End inequality” with “better tagline TBC” scribbled underneath.
Auf Wiedersehen, amigo!
Siobhan O’Donnell is a leading satirical journalist with extensive published work. Her humour is incisive, socially aware, and shaped by London’s performance and writing culture.
Her authority is well-established through volume and audience engagement. Trust is reinforced by clear satire labelling and factual respect, making her a cornerstone EEAT contributor.
