There comes a moment — usually around the third doomscroll of the morning — when you realise the climate crisis isn’t just about rising seas or confused penguins wondering why their iceberg Airbnb has melted. No. It’s also about corruption so vast it could be classified as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, genocide linked to resource extraction, and organised crime treating the planet like a giant piñata full of money.
It’s dark. It’s heavy. It’s the kind of thing that makes you stare into your cup of tea like it’s going to whisper the meaning of life.
And yet — humans persist. Why? Because we have humour. Because we have joy. Because if we didn’t laugh, we’d be screaming into our compost bins.
Humour is the Emotional Fire Blanket
When the news hits you with:
- “Record heatwave melts entire road.”
- “Government approves new oil field because… reasons.”
- “Criminal syndicate caught running illegal mining operation out of a shed.”
- “Also, the bees are still dying.”
…your brain does a little internal cartwheel and lands badly.
Humour steps in like a chaotic friend saying:
“Okay, yes, everything is terrible, but also — have you considered laughing at the fact that billionaires think they can escape to Mars? Mars! A planet that looks like a burnt scone.”
Humour is not denial. Humour is the emotional equivalent of bubble wrap: pointless, but deeply satisfying.
If Humour is the fire blanket then Joy Is Rebellion Wearing Glitter Boots
Joy is not a distraction. Joy is not naïve. Joy is not “la la la, everything is fine.”
Joy is a riot with a bubble machine.
When frontline communities dance, sing, joke, and celebrate, they’re basically saying:
“You can take our land, but you cannot take our ability to laugh at your terrible logic and unstable moral compass. We see you for what you are and we decided you are irrelevant to our ability to rage with joy.”
Oppressive systems hate joy. Corruption hates joy. Organised crime hates joy. Racists really hate joy.
Which is why joy is basically the emotional equivalent of a Molotov cocktail — but, you know, legal.
Humour Helps Us Tell the Truth Without Ruining Everyone’s Appetite
Try saying:
“The fossil fuel industry has known about climate change for decades and responded by funding denial campaigns.”
People wilt like neglected houseplants.
But say:
“The fossil fuel industry has known about climate change since the 1970s and responded with the moral integrity of a seagull stealing a four year olds bag of crisps,”
…and suddenly people can breathe again.
Humour is the spoonful of sugar that helps the horrifying truth go down — like Mary Poppins on acid.
Which brings me to Doom. No, not the pioneering computer game, real Doom.
Movements don’t survive on doom alone. Doom is exhausting. Doom is heavy. Doom is that friend who says, “Did you know the sun will explode someday?”
Joy, on the other hand will tell you that but also bring biscuits.
Climate movements thrive on, shared laughter, shared food, shared memes, shared “I cannot BELIEVE they …..” eye rolls.
Humour is glue. Joy is fuel. Together, they turn despair into action — and occasionally into interpretive dance.
We’re not fighting for a planet of spreadsheets and emissions graphs. We’re fighting for:
- laughter around kitchen tables
- forests full of birds, not bulldozers
- communities thriving, not surviving
- children who can play outside without being obliterated by a drone (I’ve spent many minutes in tears while standing in the shower contemplating the horrors acted out on the children of this world.)
Joy is the point. Joy is the goal. Joy is the reason we bother.
Corruption dehumanises. Genocide dehumanises. Organised crime dehumanises. Climate collapse dehumanises.
Humour re‑humanises.
It reminds us that we are more than victims or statistics. We are storytellers. We are joke‑makers. We are beings capable of finding light in the cracks — even if the cracks are caused by the sheer weight of movement of products from one piece of the planet to another.
Joy Helps Us Imagine Better Futures (Preferably Ones With Tasty Snacks)
Despair shrinks the imagination and Joy expands it.
Humour opens creative space. It lets us imagine futures that are not just survivable, but delightful.
Futures where:
- communities are safe
- ecosystems are restored
- corruption is something we talk about in history books
- and the only organised crime we deal with are kids raiding the biscuit tin
Joy is a design tool. Humour is a planning instrument. Together, they help us build the world we want — ideally with fewer billionaires launching themselves needlessly into space, presumably to compensate for some kind of penile dysfunction. (In the interests of not getting sued I should note here that there is no evidence to support that allegation and I do so merely to illustrate the point rather than to comment on any known biological condition)
Humour and joy don’t trivialise the climate crisis. They fortify us against it. They help us face corruption, violence, and injustice without collapsing like a badly assembled IKEA shelf.
In a world where the climate crisis is entangled with some of the darkest forces in human history, joy is not a luxury. It’s a strategy. It’s a shield. It’s a spark. It’s the emotional equivalent of shouting “NOT TODAY!” at the void.
And humour? Humour is the slightly chaotic friend who shows up with snacks, a plan, and the audacity to say:
“Yes, the world is on fire. But we’re still here. And we’re not done. I’ve brought glitter, got any glue?”