We have no blasphemy laws these days but with that freedom comes

Host: The theatre was almost empty — the seats stretched out like rows of shadows under the faint stage lights, and dust drifted in the stale air like forgotten applause. A single microphone stood at center stage, the cable coiled like a snake at its base. It was an old room, haunted by laughter — the kind that used to echo honestly, before irony became its ghost.

Jack sat near the edge of the stage, a notebook open across his knee, pages filled with scribbled lines, half-finished jokes, crossed-out thoughts. Jeeny sat on the first row, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, eyes sharp with that steady kind of care that comes when you’ve seen brilliance and fatigue living in the same soul.

Outside, rain fell softly against the marquee, washing the light into blurry halos. Inside, the silence was thick with the weight of unspoken words.

Jeeny: “You’ve been rewriting that same line for an hour.”

Jack: “It’s supposed to be funny.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “It’s not.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not supposed to be.”

Jack: (sighing) “Ann Widdecombe once said, ‘We have no blasphemy laws these days but with that freedom comes the responsibility which should always attend the exercise of free speech: truth, courtesy, and an awareness of impact. It is the last of these which is so neglected by so much modern comedy.’”

Jeeny: “You’re quoting Ann Widdecombe now? Things must be bad.”

Jack: “She’s right, though. Comedy’s lost its conscience. Everyone’s chasing laughter; no one’s chasing meaning.”

Host: The light on stage dimmed slightly as a cloud passed over the moon outside. The microphone’s shadow stretched long across the floor, thin and tremulous.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re overthinking it. Comedy isn’t meant to carry the world.”

Jack: “It does, though — whether it wants to or not. Every joke lands somewhere. Every punchline hits someone.”

Jeeny: “So you’re worried about impact.”

Jack: “I’m worried about forgetting that there is one.”

Host: He flipped a page in his notebook — words scratched in haste, fragments of observation, humor edged with frustration.

Jack: “I used to think laughter was medicine. Now I think it’s anesthesia. People don’t want healing — they want to feel numb for five minutes.”

Jeeny: “And you? What do you want?”

Jack: (pausing) “To make them think between laughs. To hold a mirror, not a knife.”

Host: Jeeny rose from her seat, walking slowly onto the stage. Her heels clicked softly on the wooden floor, each sound echoing like punctuation in the stillness.

Jeeny: “You know, the best comedians I’ve ever seen never punched down. They didn’t use laughter to wound; they used it to reveal. Chaplin, Pryor, Robin Williams… they made you laugh and cry in the same breath.”

Jack: “Because they remembered empathy. That’s the thing. Empathy used to be part of the craft. Now it’s an afterthought — if that.”

Jeeny: “You can’t legislate empathy.”

Jack: “No, but you can forget it. And we have.”

Jeeny: “So what are you trying to do? Bring decency back into stand-up?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Just conscience. Decency might be too ambitious.”

Host: The rain picked up outside, tapping against the high windows like impatient applause. Jeeny reached out, tapping the microphone gently — a hollow hum filled the room, a sound like the heart of silence itself.

Jeeny: “You know what Widdecombe meant, don’t you? It’s not censorship she’s after. It’s awareness.”

Jack: “Awareness of what?”

Jeeny: “Of how much words weigh when they land. Freedom of speech isn’t a license; it’s a promise. And every promise costs something.”

Jack: (quietly) “I used to think the only rule of comedy was to be fearless.”

Jeeny: “Fearless, yes — but not faithless. Not cruel.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly. The stage seemed to breathe again, a pulse beneath the stillness.

Jeeny: “You think the world’s gotten too sensitive. Maybe it’s just finally remembering how words hurt.”

Jack: “And where’s the line, Jeeny? Between offense and truth? Between humor and harm?”

Jeeny: “The line isn’t in the world. It’s in the heart of whoever’s holding the mic.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the cynic fell away, leaving only a man who used to believe that laughter could make people gentler.

Jack: “You think art has to be kind to be honest?”

Jeeny: “No. But it has to be kind in its intention. Honesty without kindness is brutality.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And kindness without honesty is hypocrisy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the balance. That’s the craft.”

Host: Jack closed his notebook, resting his hand on its cover as though sealing a confession.

Jack: “You know, when I started, I thought comedy was rebellion — pushing buttons, breaking taboos. Now I think the real rebellion is restraint.”

Jeeny: “Restraint isn’t silence. It’s precision. You can still aim sharp — just aim true.”

Jack: “Like what? Truth with manners?”

Jeeny: “Truth with memory. Remembering there’s a human being on the other end of the laugh.”

Host: The stage lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a golden hue on their faces. Outside, thunder murmured, low and tired.

Jack: “You ever think laughter’s just an apology in disguise?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s permission — to be human for a moment. To release the weight without ignoring it.”

Jack: “Then maybe comedy’s prayer disguised as noise.”

Jeeny: “I like that.”

Jack: (smiling) “You would.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s true. And because you said it without trying to be clever.”

Host: Jack stood, walking to center stage. He looked at the empty seats — ghosts of audiences past. For a moment, he imagined them filled again: faces half-lit, eyes waiting, ready to laugh, to feel, to understand.

He picked up the microphone. Its cool metal weight grounded him.

Jack: (softly, to no one in particular) “Maybe we’ve mistaken cruelty for courage. Maybe the bravest thing now is to make people laugh and think — to wound only their indifference, not their dignity.”

Jeeny: “That’s your next line.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think anyone would laugh?”

Jeeny: “If it’s honest — they’ll do more than laugh. They’ll remember.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The quiet that followed was almost musical. Jack placed the microphone back on its stand — gently, reverently — as if setting down something sacred.

Jeeny: “You know, Widdecombe was right about the neglect of impact. But she missed one thing.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “That sometimes, impact isn’t measured by who you offend — but by who you awaken.”

Host: Jack met her gaze, the hint of a grin breaking through — not arrogance, but gratitude.

Jack: “You really think comedy can still awaken people?”

Jeeny: “I think anything said with truth and courtesy can. Laughter just happens to be the easiest way to open a closed heart.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the rain clouds parted, and a quiet beam of moonlight slipped through the high windows, falling directly onto the stage — as if the world, too, was listening.

In that moment, two figures stood — one holding the weight of words, the other reminding him how to carry them.

Because as Ann Widdecombe said — and as Jack and Jeeny now understood —

Freedom without conscience is noise.
Speech without empathy is echo.
And laughter without awareness is cruelty disguised as art.

But the truest comedy — the kind that still heals —
isn’t about mocking the world.
It’s about teaching it, softly,
how to feel again.