T hree years, six months and 13 days ago, I tweeted the words “Coleen Rooney: Agatha Christie”. Well, that’s not quite what I tweeted. I inserted a “W” before the Agatha, creating a disposable pun that somehow went viral. To my bemusement the joke was emblazoned across countless headlines worldwide. You may be wondering why have I introduced my famous pun in such a tortured fashion. Well, I’m trying to avoid getting sued.
This week the world discovered that Rebekah Vardy has trademarked the phrase-who-shall-not-be-named, meaning that she can make money from using W****** C******* as a brand or unleash cash-thirsty lawyers on anyone else who dares use it.
When I found out I was initially dumbfounded. I wasn’t even aware it was possible to trademark a joke. If jokes start getting bought up then British humour has a bleak future. Why did the chicken cross the road? I can’t tell you or I’ll lose my house.
But my stupefaction was mixed with an unexpected admiration for the sheer chutzpah of Mrs Vardy: not only did she lose the court case, the joke wasn’t even about her! It was Coleen who was called Stagatha Crispy. (Sorry. I’m going to have to be creative if I’m going to write about a phrase that I can’t legally commit to print.)
I have read the list of products that are trademarked and she’s not messing around. You lucky people can look forward to Wagatha-branded dolls clothes, scented stationery (?), drinking horns (!?), meat tenderisers and Shinto altars.
Given how comprehensive the trademark is, I’m already preparing for the emotional torture of watching my throwaway gag mutate into a merchandising empire: at breakfast choosing between Wagaflakes and Rice Christies; picking up dog mess with my Poo Bagatha; reading the latest
Read more on theguardian.com