The other day I spotted Dan Brown reviewing his own book.

“The critics said his writing was clumsy, ungrammatical, repetitive and repetitive,” the author of The Da Vinci Code lamented. “His prose was swamped in a sea of mixed metaphors.” Then a light bulb clicked in the desert of my understanding: this was actually a rather brilliant parody. I advise you to read it here. 

Parody has long been established as an effective way of dealing with anyone who’s too clever or too stupid, too interesting or too boring. And there have been occasions when the parody has not only cut its targets down to size, but gone on to outlive them too. Don Quixote, widely regarded as the first European novel, started out as an elaborate joke at the expense of medieval romances. Meanwhile, Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal – a spoof pamphlet, encouraging the Irish to eat their own children – is a masterclass in the dangers of political spin. 

There are other illustrious examples. But parody is arguably more widespread – with more practitioners than ever – today. Whether in music or film, in literature or on Twitter, every development of note (that’s to say, worthy of a hashtag) spawns several thousand send-ups. Some, such as Pippa Middleton Tips (@pippatips), are pretty good: “Relieve hunger late in the evening by enjoying a late night snack.” Others consist of little more than a shirtless man pummelling his paunch as he attempts the Gangnam Style dance on YouTube. 

The flourishing of parody may have something to do with the cult of irony, which makes it possible to watch Made in Chelsea and own a fedora while claiming to deplore these things. By the same token, parody allows people to indulge their very worst impulses – replicating the tune of What Makes You Beautiful outside the confines of their private thoughts, say – and to disown them at the same time. 

Equally, though, it’s become clear that if nobody is making fun of you online or elsewhere, you’re doomed to obscurity. As Oscar Wilde almost certainly never said, “the only thing worse than finding a Twitter parody of yourself is not finding a Twitter parody of yourself”. Even Craig David recently admitted that Avid Merrion’s merciless caricature of him on Bo’ Selecta!, as a touchy kestrel fancier, might have actually been a “compliment”. 

I can just imagine the bitter one-upmanship between our more studiedly “controversial” journalists. “You should see what the parodists did to my piece on bulldozing NHS hospitals,” remarks Richard Littlejohn. “Oh yeah?” Julie Burchill shrieks. “You obviously didn’t hear about their response to my column on waterboarding gypsies!” 

Once a marginal, subversive art, parody has become good PR. This is perhaps why we’re also seeing politicians embracing the trick traditionally used by their enemies. Barack Obama recently starred in a parody (and admittedly a very good one) of himself, while Boris Johnson’s every move is calculated to appeal to those who want to depict him as a flailing, harebrained, philandering scarecrow. 

When parody becomes institutionalised, the results can be dire. Think of the Scary Movie franchise – worse than any of the films it parodied, and about as amusing as the token stoners at a party who spend the entire evening huddled together snorting at their own jokes. 

Don’t mistake me – I think parody is still alive and well. But in a world where everything must be “meta”, it can’t be long before we’re seeing parodies of Pippa Middleton’s book about writing parodies of Pippa Middleton. “Remember, if you’re working on a computer, you can use your fingers to select the letters you want. But not if you’re in the bath!”

More Orlando:

...on vegetarianism

...on advertising

Sign up to IdeasTap for advice, funding, opportunities and our weekly newsletter – with all the latest arts jobs.