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I don’t mind telling people I have the best job in the world. Of course, that’s palpable nonsense. I don’t play centre forward for Arsenal, I don’t test drive speed boats, and I don’t design lingerie catalogues.

However, I do get to hang out with some fantastically creative people, work from home to a soundtrack of my choice, and occasionally hear people laugh at my jokes.

I’ve been a comedy writer for 20 years. It all dates back to university, where I was one half of a double act. Back then, writing was a necessary evil so we had something to do on stage (besides dodging heckles). Despite a woeful lack of originality, the experience led to a stint in the Oxford Revue, a month at the Edinburgh Fringe and a determination to forge a career in making people laugh.

Graduation meant taking the well-trodden path to Radio 4, whose topical sketch show Week Ending operated an open-door policy for new writers (as well as deluded eccentrics). Getting material broadcast led to a modest commission; a modest commission led to a bursary; and slowly doors began to open.

Since then, I’ve written for all manner of programmes – sitcoms, sketch shows, chat shows, clip shows, game shows, quiz shows and awards shows. From Spitting Image and Have I Got News For You through to Miranda and Al Murray’s Happy Hour, it’s a case of ‘have twisted imagination, will travel’.

It's a case of 'have twisted imagination, will travel'.

I’m freelance and usually contracted on a daily basis, so the working brief can vary enormously from day to day. It could be banging out one-liners for Alexander Armstrong, writing a complete script for Minute To Win It, or brainstorming with a performer to inject a little humour into their routine (as happened most recently on An Audience With Barry Manilow). It’s not rare to work on five different shows over the space of five days, so you have to be versatile.

If I’m working from home, the day begins around 9:30am with a freshly brewed cup of coffee. It’s the classic displacement activity of all writers, and mine is constantly accumulating new layers of pointless elaboration, involving bean-grinding, pot-warming and a precise 60-second pause before plunging. I’d like to think it produces a fuller flavour but I suspect it merely creates a shorter working day. Then it’s a careful wade into a messy study that’s stacked knee-high with unread newspapers and magazines (laughably preserved for ‘research’) and a swivel in the office chair while my ageing iMac gropes around for its hard drive. Once the computer’s up to speed, I warm up with a trawl through the social networks and flawed attempts to think up something intelligently amusing in less than 140 characters.

It’s a common misconception that comedy writers spend their days laughing hysterically at their own jokes. Sadly, that assumption is wildly inaccurate, not least because comedy writers are famously grumpy.

The intellectual and the brainless
It’s a common misconception that comedy writers spend their days laughing hysterically at their own jokes. Sadly, that assumption is wildly inaccurate, not least because comedy writers are famously grumpy. Instead, comedy writing is a mix of the intellectual and the brainless, somewhat akin to crossword solving. You free associate for a while, stumble across something with potential, grapple with it, realise you can make it fit, then scribble it down before it slips away. You allow yourself a small moment of smug satisfaction before moving straight onto the next line in case you lose momentum. The average day is so lacking in drama it would barely muster a PG certificate, consisting as it does of mild swearing, occasional peril and a disappointing lack of nudity. With regular breaks for tea, chocolate and surfing, I plough through until 6:30pm. I’ve got more disciplined over the years, although this is due in no small measure to the arrival of children and the departure of savings.

Much as I love working from home, cabin fever and paranoia that I’m missing out on something means a working day in central London is more than welcome. Thankfully, my long-suffering agent, Abby Singer, ensures I don’t stew for too long. Working away from home usually involves squatting in meeting rooms, grappling with the shabby computers that no one else wants and getting people’s names wrong. Studio days figure every now and again, consisting, much like warfare, of long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Usually the script is nailed down by this point and you’re just making tweaks as the performers familiarise themselves with the material. But occasionally something seismic happens – a guest drops out, someone demands a change to the running order, or a breaking news story tramples all over your script. That’s when you really earn your money.

Much of my work involves collaborating with producers, script editors and on-screen talent. Occasionally, I’m called in at short notice as a ‘script doctor’, to rewrite an existing script and add in a little more freshness and vitality. With time, it’s become easier to write to order, finding the individual tone and voice of a performer or the show itself. Indeed, having that voice in mind can really facilitate the process, making it feel more like dictation than writing. I’m sure there are writers writhing in horror at that confession. However, I subscribe to the philosophy that writing comedy is a wonderful job, but a job nonetheless.

Collaboration also stretches to working with fellow writers. Dan Gaster, Will Ing and I have been writing together since those formative years on Week Ending. Recently, we took the leap of starting our own production company, Black Dog Television. While it’s tough getting used to the endless paperwork and financial demands, it’s proved an excellent vehicle for developing our own shows. Having already shot a few pilots, we’re now writing and producing our first TV series, Alexander Armstrong’s Big Ask, for digital channel Dave.

I subscribe to the philosophy that writing comedy is a wonderful job, but a job nonetheless.

Working with Dan and Will involves lots of laughing out loud. We tend to gather round the table, line up the coffees, and brainstorm ideas until inspiration deserts us or we lose the ability to distinguish between funny and stupid (it’s a fine line). Then it’s back home to type up notes and assemble them into some sort of order. With conflicting diaries and homes miles apart, much of our work is done via email – each of us taking turns to tweak before passing onto the next person. Black Dog has proved that, for us, the sum is greater than the parts. Working together tends to produce our best work, whether it’s because we raise our game or because we apply stricter script editing. Our different writing skills complement each other and, best of all, there are always two people to carry you when you’re having a bad day.

But when you’re on the clock, bailing out is not an option. Instead, you have to knuckle down, plough on, and pray to the almighty Larry David for inspiration.

The ticking clock and the empty page
Sadly, bad days do happen. Days when the ideas are thin, the words are stale and the jokes are drivel. But when you’re on the clock, bailing out is not an option. Instead, you have to knuckle down, plough on, and pray to the almighty Larry David for inspiration. Of course, necessity is the mother of invention, and adversity is her irritating nephew. Sometimes the ticking clock and the empty page are the writer’s greatest asset – a means of focusing the mind and pushing the limits. Even now, I can look at a densely packed page and think, ‘Where did that come from?’ I suspect the answer is an old episode of Not the Nine O’Clock News – but that’s between us, right?

Nowadays, the biggest threat to my work doesn’t come from a shortage of material, but rather from the abundance of it elsewhere. Increasingly, viewers are forsaking television in favour of the delights of YouTube, Video on Demand and online streaming (frequently pirated). It’s escalating the dangerous impression that TV shows are free to use and abuse. As writers, it’s vital we protect our copyright and make people realise we deserve recognition and remuneration for our work. If it hadn’t been for the financial relief of repeats and royalties, my career would have stalled long ago.

As writers, it’s vital we protect our copyright and make people realise we deserve recognition and remuneration for our work.

I have no idea where television is heading. I’m certain it will involve wider access than the big flat box in the corner of the lounge. We’ll be watching on phones, tablets, game consoles, music players, laptops and desktops. But the undying popularity of stand-up, and the primeval need to share laughter, reassures me there’s still a future for coffee-drinking comedy writers.

I’ve never really followed a long-term career plan. My ambition has always been to write my own TV shows, and I’ve done that a few times. Indeed, I’ve even appeared in my own series (which no one remembers except the IMDb). But as time passes, I realise I enjoy writing for its own sake. Being able to conjure something from thin air; the satisfaction of forging a clever line; inventing characters and exploring ideas; and, best of all, getting laughs from a roomful of people.

I don’t mind telling people it’s the best job in the world. And if BBC1 commissions my sitcom about the speed boat-driving Arsenal striker who designs lingerie catalogues, it might even get better.

Paul Powell is a television writer and producer, and a creative director of Black Dog Television. His credits include Miranda, Epic Win, Life of Riley, Paul O’Grady Live and Alexander Armstrong’s Big Ask.

Paul recently joined the ALCS Board as a non-executive director.

© Paul Powell

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