Nicky Watson and I moved house in the summer of 2002, and since this was I think the tenth time we’ve wound up doing so since we were married, the feeling of shame and humiliation which overwhelmed us as our miscellaneous worldly goods were exposed to the view of the removers was pretty familiar. This time, though, the sensation was made a little more specific. Among the crack team of musclebound Vikings who arrived on the great day to throw our worldly goods into boxes and then throw those boxes into a lorry was one trainee, who had yet to learn the complete, silent, non-judgemental tact that must necessarily characterize anyone who aspires to a long-term future in that demanding service trade. Carrying yet another box of books and a stone bust towards the lorry through the blazing heat of the day, this mover met my eye and raised his eyebrows. ‘Like Shakespeare, do we, sir?’, he asked. The tone wasn’t primarily of mockery: it was intended to express pity, though it came out with a strong poorly camouflaged undertone of derision. It was as if he had found ten bookshelves detailing all the railway engine numbers currently in service on Network South-East, or several complete sets of ankle bells and a hobby horse. Back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, several of us were publishing books all about how William Shakespeare became the great figure of authority which he remains for English-speaking culture, and I suppose one of the incidental questions I want to raise in this article, during this short examination of the strange interrelations between Shakespeare and the traditions of English comedy and of English professionalism since his death, is simply this: who did we think we were kidding?