Zeddy Lawrence

Zeddy Lawrence, former TV comedy scriptwriter and radio presenter, is now Editor of the Jewish News. He takes a lighter look at life, through his kosher-tinted spectacles.

New year, new jokes

By Zeddy Lawrence - Friday 13th 2010f August 2010

Given the time of year, standing as we are on the precipice of our own destinies, our fate hanging in the balance as God determines our futures, it seems that at this moment, in particular, it would be wise to be honest.

For that reason, with the infrastructure of the entire British banking system on the verge of collapse, I feel it’s incumbent on me to hold my hand up, shoulder the blame for the biggest financial crisis since the Wall Street Crash, and apologise for any distress I may have caused. Had I known just six weeks ago that taking out a mortgage with Northern Rock would tip the company over the fiscal edge and wipe out the savings of an entire nation, I’d have thought twice before accepting their offer of a loan. But they never told me.

A simple ‘sorry, we can’t lend you the money. We know you’re credit rating’s
good, but it’ll destroy the Bank of England, obliterate the stockmarket, undermine the capitalist system, lead to a revolution and drag Britain into the dark ages’ would have sufficed.

Instead, I moved and, as a result, inflation’s soaring out of control, unemployment’s rising to 10 million, shanty towns are being built on Hampstead Heath, soup kitchens are opening on every corner and destitute city brokers are being pleading with passers-by to lend them 200,000 lira for a cappuccino.

If you think we in the UK are the only ones suffering though, don’t worry. Tomorrow, I’m going to plunge Sweden into recession by purchasing a bedside table with an Ikea store card.

(Talking of furniture, as I walked past DFS on Rosh Hashanah, I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I heard one of the employees inside blowing the sofa. His lips may be a little sore, but at least he didn’t cause as much damage as the PC World salesman who spent New Year dipping his entire stock of Apple Macs into honey.)

I know, I know, if I ought to repent for anything this Yom Kippur, it should be for continuing to foist these truly appalling jokes on you, our discerning readers. And yet, as I beat my chest with remorse, I can’t help but think you’ve got away lightly. After all, it’s now four weeks since I first started riffing on Rosh Hashanah, and in all that time, I haven’t once made any mention of how 5768 was always my favourite Steps’ song.

And who knows what treacherous path that kind of seasonal pun could take us down? Next thing you know, I’ll be telling you that my favourite Elvis number is Lulav Me Tender or that my favourite Francis Ford Coppola film is Peggy Succot Married.

Needless to say, as merciful as God may be, under no circumstances can there be any forgiveness for such atrocious jokes. Indeed, save for spending eternity in the company of Jim Davidson, no punishment, or should that be pun-ishment, could be deemed severe enough for what can only be described as crimes against humour-anity.

And so, at this time of inner-reflection, permit me to eradicate the last two paragraphs from your minds, so as to commence Yom Kippur with a copy book free from blots. May 5768 be a year packed full of only the finest of jokes.
Wishing you all well over the fast.
Shanah tovah.