In the first part of this millenium, it seems you couldn’t move for irony. Arched of brow,barbed of zinger, pop culture was dominated by irony. It gave us nu-rave, refurbished arcade games, vintage style, the Burlesque and cabaret revival, and- arguably most prominently – comedy that to many was just plain offensive.
I get it, really, I do. All art is subjective. But stuff like the cheap racism, sexism, ableism and homophobia of Phoenix Nights, Bo’ Selecta! and Ricky Gervais’ regular appearances on The 11 O’ Clock Show seemed to signal that the laddish, obnoxious hangover of Britpop (think Noel and Liam Gallagher at their most lairy) was becoming firmly ingrained in the British psyche: an inescapable, unstoppable force.
Without wading into the current horrible allegations (and we’re all fully aware of them) against Russell Brand, he was definitely a purveyor of comedy steeped in irony. He seemed to both revel in- and also distance himself from- certain unsavoury aspects of working-class life.
Suddenly, women were “birds” again, and wholly interchangeable, TV shows like Big Brother, Snog, Marry, Avoid? and The Jeremy Kyle Show felt increasingly prurient, snide and judgemental.
There was a shift in the UK towards a cheap, tawdry sensationalism, as though the tabloids influences were replacing the alternative spirit which had meant that more marginalised voices were finally getting heard and understood.
Swinging his mic like a rock star, Brand was one part Dickensian urchin, one part indie sleaze, and one part shock comic. His justification for the more crude parts of his act seemed to be that he was articulate and a little introspective, as well as blokey, a West Ham fan with a thesaurus. So his verbose routines, liberally peppered with awkward anecdotes about shagging, were viewed through the prism of noughties irony. How very convenient.
Regardless of the outcome, his Smiths albums, and crowings about studying philosophy, religion and politics, Brand always had an undercurrent of something dark and unsettling. If you didn’t laugh, you were prudish, a proto -snowflake, or simply not in the know. Anything could be excused away with a wink.
I often laughed at some of his material, especially when he called out more cruel elements of masculinity. He seemed to be parodying it. But, stripped of irony, and with the benefit of hindsight, in the words of his hero (another polarizing figure) Morrissey, “that joke isn’t funny anymore” .
Hit The North 