That's the Way to Do it! The History of Punch and Judy

Do you know what constitutes proper British cultural heritage? I’ll give you a clue: it involves seaside entertainment, casual violence, a policeman being hit repeatedly with a stick, and a man with a voice like a distressed teakettle. No, not Parliament, Punch and Judy. Now, most people assume Punch and Judy is as British as drizzle, queueing, and apologising to inanimate objects. But remarkably, it actually began life in Italy. That’s right. Britain’s most beloved puppet hooligan started out as Pulcinella, a character from the 16th-century commedia dell’arte tradition — a mischievous rogue with a hooked nose, questionable morals, and the emotional maturity of a concussed ferret. When Punch arrived in England in the 1660s, however, he rapidly shed most traces of his Mediterranean origins and became unmistakably British: loud, argumentative, anarchic, and oddly cheerful in the face of complete social collapse. His first recorded appearance was witnessed by Samuel Pepys in Covent Garden in 1662. Pepys described it approvingly in his diary, thereby becoming perhaps the first theatre critic in history to endorse a puppet show involving domestic disputes and blunt-force trauma. During the Victorian era, Punch and Judy truly came into its own. At a time when ordinary people had little political power and even less opportunity to complain about it publicly, Punch became a sort of squeaky-voiced folk hero. He mocked authority, ignored rules, outwitted policemen, terrified crocodiles, and behaved with the sort of glorious recklessness most people could only dream about while paying rent and emptying chamber pots. Even now, Punch and Judy shows remain a fixture of British seaside life. On promenades from Brighton to Blackpool, generations of children have sat transfixed as Mr Punch whacks his way through a cast of increasingly bewildered opponents. Alongside his long-suffering wife Judy are a baby, a clown, a policeman, a dog named Toby, assorted villains, and for reasons nobody has ever fully explained, a crocodile. And then there is the voice. Punch’s unmistakable squawk is created using a tiny device called a swazzle, held inside the puppeteer’s mouth. The resulting sound is somewhere between a kazoo, a goose having an argument, and a bicycle pump developing sentience. It is completely ridiculous and utterly perfect. Traditional Punch professors take it very seriously indeed, and some insist that without the swazzle it simply isn’t a proper Punch and Judy show, much as a full English breakfast without tea is merely a regrettable collection of fried objects. Extraordinarily, there was a time when Punch served as a genuine source of news and satire for ordinary people. In an age before newspapers were widely read, the puppet booth was where audiences came not only to laugh, but to hear jokes about politics, local scandals, public figures, and the general absurdity of life. Which means that for a significant portion of British history, public discourse was effectively being shaped by a squeaking puppet with anger-management issues. And somehow, against all odds, he survived. Through wars, revolutions, industrial upheavals, changing fashions, television, the internet, and modern health-and-safety culture, Mr Punch remains gloriously indestructible — still causing mayhem from behind a striped booth while children howl with laughter and adults quietly wonder whether the entire thing is completely mad. Which, of course, is precisely why Britain treasures him.