"Perfect," the director replied. "Cut to a close-up of a middle-aged man in the third row looking slightly confused. That’s the 'Vehicle' brand."

I can adjust the "Vehicle" to fit exactly what you're looking for.

Back on stage, Stewart stood up, brushed off his suit, and looked directly into the lens. He dismantled the joke he had just told, explaining why it wasn't funny, why the audience’s laughter was "the wrong kind of laughter," and how the very concept of a television comedy vehicle was a hollow vessel for the death of British culture.

He paused, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable, then unbearable, then—briefly—profound.

In the edit suite, the producer watched the monitors. "He’s been on the floor for six minutes," she whispered. "The audience looks like they’re undergoing a medical trial."