A couple of weeks ago, I received an unexpected letter from a major broadcasting corporation. Far be it from me to specify which one it was, but suffice to say it was British. The missive in question was an invitation for uncommissioned comedy writers to attend a script-writing meeting for the new series of a popular radio sketch show. Never having attended such a gathering before, I was looking forward to it immensely, recalling Rich Hall s fond reminisces of his time as a gag-writer on The Late Show With David Letterman.

During an interview for hotpress a couple of years ago, Montana s finest had spoken fondly of an idyllic working lifestyle consisting of late starts and early finishes interspersed with leisurely periods of inactivity, all the better to enjoy the vast mounds of free stuff (books, videos, CDs, gadgets, toys and assorted other bits of promotional bric-a-brac) and money that came with the gig. It was a seemingly blissful existence, interrupted only by sporadic bursts of frantic scribbling on the odd occasion Dave got lairy and threw a shit fit. Every fucking day was like Christmas, recalled a dewy-eyed Rich. They were happy times.
Thus it was with a spring in my step that I made my way into a big building near Oxford Circus shortly after the appointed hour. I was running fashionably late, in order to appear fashionably unenthusiastic and was dressed, like every comedy writer of my acquaintance (except the omni-trendy Arthur Mathews), fashionably unfashionably.
A very bored woman behind the front desk of the BBC offices in question showed no interest in establishing who I was or what I wanted so, following the instructions of my letter to the letter, I made my way to the radio comedy department on the fifth floor. Despite encountering several strangers on my way, not one acknowledged my existence. I wasn t particularly surprised, of course, as people in London rarely acknowledge your existence, even when they know who you are. It s just that my occasional rambles around the corridors of the broadcasting institution that is RTE have always elicited more greetings than a drunk Tom Dunne stuttering his way through the chorus of that old Something Happens number with all the Hellos in the chorus.
The meeting; my meeting, was being held in a room behind a closed door from which muffled conversation could be heard. The bastards had started without me. I knocked politely, expecting to be ushered into an air-conditioned conference room containing several trendy, bespectacled blokes called Nigel, all anxious to hear my cutting edge ideas for their cutesy-cute little show. The door opened and several uncommissioned comedy writers were involuntary and violently propelled into the corridor. There was one trendy, bespectacled Nigel whose name I didn t get and approximately 100 uncommissioned comedy writers, a box of biros, some paper, 10 cups and saucers, a pot of coffee, no room to move and a disturbing lack of oxygen.
Thirty minutes in their company revealed the writers in question to be a motley crew of every stripe and shade. For uncommissioned read unpaid, unhygienic, untalented, unkempt, unfunny, unskilled, unemployed, uncomfortable, unhappy, unfortunate, untried, untested, uncombed, unfulfilled, ungainly, untrained, unsociable, unqualified, unskilled, unwaged and unable to breath. And that was just me.
The aim of the meeting soon became clear. Having outlined the comedic principles on which his show was based, The Nigel promptly opened the meeting to the few square inches of floor he could see and asked for suitably amusing suggestions from the assembled throng. An uneasy chill immediately filled the room.
The majority of those present were seemingly of the opinion that they would rather keep their amusing suggestions to themselves, for fear that, once aired, they would immediately become public property and therefore worthless. After much teetering on the brink however, several egos wavered and the ensuing ideas were eagerly scribbled down by an appreciative Nigel. Indeed, as resolve after resolve crumbled and more and more contributions were bandied about the room, his writing hand soon became a hypnotic blur.
The cynical among us could have been forgiven for assuming that this meeting was merely being used as a cheap brainstorming session to provide free raw material from which the commissioned writers for the show could hand-pick and develop the best ideas. But that s not how radio works. Everybody knows that.
After approximately 30 minutes of this nonsensical guff, The Nigel his hand wracked with cramp asked if anyone had any questions. Needless to say, everyone had the same one and it was left to some swotty old dear with a blue rinse to ask it.
In the last series of the show, she enquired. How many of the sketches you used were written by uncommissioned writers?
I beg your pardon, enquired Nigel with a nervous cough.
In the last series of the show, how many of your sketches were written by uncommissioned writers?
Eh, none.
Not one? enquired Blue Rinse.
No, none, repeated Bill. And I make no apologies for that. We received quite a lot but they simply weren t good enough.
Hmmmm. You stick a 100 monkeys in a
room with a 100 typewriters and they ll
eventually come up with the complete works
of, if not Shakespeare, Jeffrey Archer. You
stick a 100 human beings in a room with a
100 typewriters and they can t manage a funny 30-second comedy sketch between them.
Small wonder Rich Hall was conspicuous by his absence.

Barry Glendenning s sketches (amusing or otherwise) are unlikely to feature on Dead Ringers, BBC Radio 4, Fridays at 6pm.