Writing comedy is easier than you'd think, just as long as you're prepared to do a huge amount of unpaid, unappreciated work and put up with continual rejection, including being yelled at by 'industry people' who think they know better, even though they are short and were clearly teased at school.
Comedy in written form is as old as written language. Indeed, some people say that writing itself was first developed in order to note down particularly funny dinner party anecdotes.
'If you're the kind of person who loves to tell old jokes but can never find anyone who hasn't heard them before, then I'm your woman. It's a constant source to delight to certain friends of mine that I've never heard even the hoariest of old gags. I laugh like a drain when they tell me the one about the Irishman, Englishman and Australian. When they come sidling up and whisper 'Hey Gayle you heard the one about...' and my reply is 'no', their faces light up in a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Disbelief mainly, because they can't believe a woman of my vintage who's obviously been round the block more than a few times, hasn't heard these jokes, limericks, or bawdy rugby songs before.' (Introduction)
'The republic referendum ten years ago taught me how hard it is to beat a slogan, particularly when it takes at least thirty seconds of air time to counter it. We live in a sound-bite age, and that's just how it is. This time around, the slogan was 'cheaper books', and who doesn't want cheaper books? Of course, the issue was in no way that simple. No issue is two words long.' (Introduction)
Picture this scene from our past, if you will.
It's a hot, still noon in the Australian bush. The deep blue sky has not a wisp of cloud and the sun beats down pitilessly. The only sound is the harsh cark of crows as they roost in some defeated gums by the dried-out creek bed. A small herd of dead sheep lie shrivelled and stinking in the now parched mud. Surveying this desolate scene from the creek bank is a tall lean bushman mounted on horseback. Eyes narrowed under the deep shadow of his bushman's hat, he slowly strokes his chin and utters a couple of brief, well-chosen observations about sheep, death and existence.
In these circumstances, such words as pass for humour were generally a masterpiece of deadpan understatement, a joke so dry and scarcely detectable that only a brown dog could sniff the wit in it.
