Fred McAlpine flies the flag...

Let’s get one thing out of the way: British comedy is the best comedy in the world. There, I said it. Not ‘one of’. Not ‘arguably’. Just is.

And before someone tweets a YouTube clip of Dave Chappelle smoking a thought — don’t bother. We’ve seen it. We’ve seen all of it. And we’re still not laughing. Not like we do at the raw, awkward, razor-sharp brilliance of the UK’s comedy scene, which has spent the last fifty years mutating into something gloriously mean, weird, and unexportable.

While American sitcoms still spoon-feed audiences with laugh tracks like it's 1995 and everyone's lobotomised (Big Bang Theory, anyone?), we’re out here crafting silence into art. The Office (UK) changed comedy forever with a wince and a whisper. Meanwhile, its US cousin spent nine seasons mugging like it was trapped in a school play.

Our stand-ups are viciously clever. James Acaster turns trauma into abstract comedy jazz. Frankie Boyle roasts politicians so hard Parliament should be issuing sunscreen. Stewart Lee has spent decades brilliantly alienating every room he walks into — and we thank him for it.

Compare that to the average Netflix US special: a 70-minute TED Talk with punchlines. Kevin Hart performs like he’s being electrocuted by fame. Amy Schumer’s still recycling material older than her stand-up career. And Joe Rogan? Mate. If yelling about elk meat and hallucinogens counts as comedy, I’ll eat a copy of Viz.

While America killed sketch comedy via SNL bloat and James Corden, we’re still churning out the goods. The Fast Show, That Mitchell And Webb Look, Limmy’s Show, Horrible Histories (yes, even the kids’ stuff is cleverer than most adult content Stateside) — all built on tight writing, character depth, and the uncanny knack to say something actually new.

America? Gave us Mad TV. Enough said.

Awkwardness is our national language. British comedy doesn’t just embrace discomfort — it throws a dinner party for it and locks the door. Shows like Peep Show, Inside No. 9, Fleabag, and Catastrophe make you laugh while questioning your own personal ethics. American comedies ask, ‘Can I be relatable?" British comedies ask, "What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done and why is it still funny?’

Too much American comedy depends on likability. Their comics are brands, not threats. We like our performers like we like our pubs: scruffy, unwelcoming, and dangerously close to a breakdown. US comics want fans. British comics want you to leave feeling slightly worse about yourself — but in a good way.

A quick roast of the American comedy machine

• Jeff Dunham: Racism, but make it ventriloquism.
• Larry the Cable Guy: A character invented by a Florida fever dream.
• Sebastian Maniscalco: Physical comedy for people scared of ideas.
• Jay Leno: Five nights a week of beige.
• Dane Cook: What if noise was a person?
• Gabriel Iglesias: Soundboard energy.
• Jimmy Fallon: Less a comedian, more a giggle in human form.

Sure, America has legends: Pryor, Carlin, Gilda Radner, early Chris Rock. But pound for pound, decade for decade, we’ve got them beat. Our failure is funnier. Our class neuroses are sharper. Our satire bites. And we still make weird stuff on tiny budgets — which somehow ends up changing the entire genre.

You don’t need a stadium and a six-camera set-up. Sometimes, you just need a man in a suit staring down the barrel and saying something true, cruel, and properly funny.

Published: 27 May 2025