Too Ridiculous for Words

I’ve realised recently that the word, ‘ridiculous,’ is one I use pretty often (along with, ‘exactly’ and, ‘absolutely,’ which irritated my husband so much that he had a t-shirt printed for me with the words on, spelt phonetically) 'Ridiculous' is usually uttered with a roll of the eyes and a look of despair, frequently in relation to a member of the current Conservative government, or in response to some petty rule that I really think is irrelevant. 

Over the years, I’ve become something of an expert on all things ridiculous. Let’s face it, I’ve been pretty ridiculous numerous times in my life, not least because of my fashion (mis)sense.  Looking back I’ve made a few ridiculous errors of judgment where clothes are concerned. There are numerous occasions where I might have slightly misjudged the ‘dress code.’  Having said that, I’m a great believer in wearing what you want (within reason) and not having to conform to somebody else’s ideas of ‘appropriate’ dress. When I started teaching I was pulled up twice on my attire. 

The first time, at the school I was on teaching practice, I’m willing to admit, in hindsight, and with thirty more years of sartorial experience behind me, there was an element of ‘ridiculousness’ about the outfit. It was a brightly coloured jumpsuit that I’d made for myself out of a pair of children’s curtains. Yes, I know. But it went down well with the seven year olds I was teaching. The deputy head obviously drew the short straw. He came to me after school one day and talked about maths, PE and the weather, before averting his eyes and mentioning - oh so awkwardly - that I might wear something different the following day.  

The second time was in my first teaching job where the headteacher and I had developed a kind of love-hate relationship. She would compliment me on my dangly earrings one day, then pull me aside the next, to tell me that my red ski pants (yes, they were in fashion in the early 80s) were inappropriate.  I disagreed, but, in order to keep my job, I went into tailored black pants the following day, and very quickly became a Stepford Teacher (with a few ridiculous additions - the green Doc Martins, the mad earrings, and the brightly coloured tops).  I was too much of a rebel to be completely converted. 

I’m sure, if I flick through some of our earlier photo albums, I’ll find plenty of examples of ridiculous outfits, but, to be honest, they were just a bit of fun to me. My mum assures me that I was never conventional, even as a child. When I got into my early teens and bought myself an age 8 Ladybird kilt (how on earth did it fit?) and a pair of red tap shoes to wear ‘down the high road’ on a Saturday afternoon I thought I was the bee’s knees. My best friend had an identical outfit, and I’m sure we were the focus of many ‘ridiculous’ comments. At the time, it was probably what we loved about those trips. 

My sense of humour is frequently activated by  sights or situations which could be accurately described as ridiculous.  I’m lucky to have friends and family who see the world in a similar way. One of the most ridiculous sights I’ve ever seen occurred on an aircraft. I was with my daughter and it doesn’t take much to set us off.  As we sat down to wait for take off a little scene began to unfold before us. Now, I am nosy (I like to call it curious) but my daughter is the opposite, and can’t understand my interest in other people and their lives. As she settled down to have little sleep, I listened in to the couple in front. What I ascertained was that they were work colleagues, off to some sort of conference. It was obvious they didn’t know each other very well, as the conversation was, at first, somewhat stilted.  The female was quite young, possibly early twenties, and the male was older, probably in his forties. He wanted to impress, and spent the whole journey talking about himself and his many achievements. Being a polite young girl his colleague nodded and put in the odd, complimentary comment as we flew towards London. 

When we landed the male seemed reluctant for the conversation to end, and I heard him asking if the girl would like to go with him for a drink.  I got the impression she wasn’t very keen but obviously was too shy or too inexperienced to say no. I woke up my daughter and quickly filled her in on the conversation I’d overheard. She was polite enough to feign interest as we stood up to get our luggage.  The couple in front also began to gather their things together and get their coats on.  I noticed the man, still talking, was struggling with his jacket, which was a short, bomber style affair. As passengers started to alight, the man continued to try and impress the girl, mentioning expensive clubs and restaurants - whist still wrestling with his jacket.  It was their turn to join the queue, and I was relieved to see he’d eventually managed to get the jacket on. Except that it was upside down. Hence the struggle. And hence the rather strange arm movements he was exhibiting as he descended the steps.  The girl was oblivious, I’m guessing she was working on an escape plan, and the man, although obviously uncomfortable, ploughed on with his monologue. 

My daughter and I noticed the problem at exactly the same time. We looked at each for a few seconds before bursting into  uncontrollable laughter. We followed behind, trying desperately to keep up, whilst also trying to stifle the outburst. We couldn’t. It was too funny: the man desperately trying to impress his bored young colleague whilst walking beside her in an upside down jacket. The more we looked at him the louder we laughed. He turned at one point to throw us a questioning look, but that just made us laugh all the more.  We followed him towards the baggage hall, not wanting to miss his discovery of the faux pas.  Sure enough, as we rounded a bend, he stopped, looked down at himself, stole a glance at the girl, and in one swift move, whipped off the jacket, turned it around the correct way and put it back on. This happened many years ago, when Blackpool airport was still open and flying planes to London, but my daughter only has to ask me if I remember the man in the upside down jacket and we’re both back on that plane and doubled up with laughter. 

For me, I think that incident pretty much defines the word, ‘ridiculous’ in all it’s forms: older man trying to impress young girl; older man trying to prolong the conversation by offering drinks; and, above all, older man in upside down jacket trying to sound like Mr Big.  I wonder what happened to them? Maybe they’re married now. If they are, I really hope they wore their wedding clothes upside down or, at least, inside out. 

I Started a Poem  by Jill Reidy

I started a poem

About all things ridiculous 

I listed them

Rolling my eyes

Tutting 

Judging

And laughing to myself 

I went to town on 

Make up

Fashion

And lots more 

And then

I realised 

That, over the years 

I’d been guilty of so many 

Of those things I deemed 

Ridiculous.

The sparkling pink eye shadow 

That sprinkled glitter down my cheeks 

Made me look like I’d been crying 

The skirt, too tight, too short

Revealing legs too fat 

Lips I tried to plump with stinging gel

Carefully outlined and painted shiny red

The too high shoes I couldn’t walk in 

The clompy mules on giant platforms

The baggy harem pants

And the skin tight jeans 

Leggings stretched to bursting

Tights like Nora Batty’s

Oh and the hair

The pink, the purple, the rainbow hues

And finally, the huge, Deirdre Barlow glasses

That make a spectacle of myself.

So I didn’t write the poem.  I decided it was just too ridiculous for words....

 Thanks for reading.......... Jill

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A Load of Mispants

Like many children born in the 1950s I spent the first few years of my life television-free. There was great excitement when a little square box appeared in our front room, and even more of a frenzy when we kids realised you could press a button to switch it on, and change between two channels by twiddling a knob on the front. In the days before technology really took off, that tiny box provided hours of entertainment.

We watched anything - well, anything deemed suitable by our mum and dad, who were meticulous in their scanning and couldn’t possibly have foreseen the dangers of the Internet fifty years hence.

In the absence of much variety, one of the programmes I really loved was Mr Pastry, a clumsy, bumbling old man, who was constantly tripping over and dropping things. At the time - and at the age of seven - it was hilarious. With hindsight, it seems strange that the TV was placed where it was, as the room was waiting to be decorated, and I vividly remember the one and only chair, an old wooden dining chair, painted pale blue. It's now pink and resides in my old bedroom at my mum’s. Needless to say, that chair was the most coveted piece of furniture by us kids. Frequently fought over, it was used proudly by the winner who had to have a very strong bladder in order to maintain his position. Many a time, all three of us would be unceremoniously removed from the room by my mum marching in, switching off the TV and dragging us - in a bundle - out into the hall.

Anyway, back to Mr Pastry. In one of the first programmes, we met his assistant and sidekick, Miss Print. This was my first introduction to a ‘play on words.’ It took me a while to realise there was a double meaning, but once I did I thought it was really funny.

I used to have a folder full of misprints cut out of newspapers. I’ve no idea what happened to them and I can’t remember most of them, but I do recall that the classified ads in the local paper were the most likely to harbour the dreaded misprints.

There was the 3 bedroomed hose; the dining table 3” x 4” (for anybody under about 50, that’s three inches by four inches), seats six; and I still wonder whether anybody bought the large wooden picture farm. The Guardian was known as the Grauniad for good reason. It even had a daily section apologising for the previous day’s mistakes:

Quote 'Readers were informed that the 2003 spring season at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon would feature “The Taming of the Screw”. Anyone spluttering over their morning muesli at this point might have reached for Glaxo’s “controversial treatment for irritable bowl syndrome”, as we once had it. If further proof were needed of the havoc one missing letter can produce, among the highlights expected at Glastonbury 2010 was the group Frightened Rabbi. “[That] should have been the Scottish band Frightened Rabbit,” deadpanned the next day’s corrections column.'

Too many Guardian examples to quote them all, but find more here.

The following images aren't from the Guardian, but they did amuse me.

I’m a bit of a pedant where spelling and punctuation are concerned. I think describing some of the errors I see on social media as misprints is actually giving pretty wide leeway. I bite my tongue and sit on my hands these days.

However one of my favourites was not a misprint, but a mishearing, which I’m sneaking in here. Listening to the radio one day I was shocked to hear a Scottish announcer reporting on new ‘Anti-Stocking Laws.’ I was about to explode in a frenzy of feminist ranting, when the article continued and I realised, with relief, that the Scottish accent meant that ‘stalking’ sounded very similar to ’stocking.’

It's All Just a Load of Mispants

by Jill Ready

Off to the theatre 

The Taming of the Screw

But first

Let's tackle this 

Irritable bowl

that's been bugging me 

Then

lip sick on

Brush the air

do my yes

Mustn't forget to lick the door

quietly

so the dog doesn't start to bake

I'm meeting Pet

at the local pube 

He says it's goo in there

Two pins each and we're ready to go

Halfway there and the bell begins to grumble

Oh no

where are the to lets? 

Something pasty is about to happen

I make it, Justin Tim

Pew!

The play was good but still wandering about the screw.....

Thanks for reading,   Jill

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What the Butler Saw - A 'Y' Shaped Coffin

When I was a child I remember my father having a novelty pen. From behind clear plastic, a picture of a young, attractive lady smiled. She was fully clothed, but a twist of the pen and she was just in a bathing suit. The pen would have been quite a popular thing at the time. Blackpool promenade gift shops would have been full of them – perhaps they still are, I wouldn’t know, but I hope not. At the time, early to mid ‘60s, they were harmless fun and not intended to degrade women any more than ‘What the Butler Saw’ machines in the amusement arcades or live striptease shows. Dad always told me that she, the model in the pen, wasn’t a patch on my beautiful mother. And of course, she wasn’t. Nobody was.

I laughed at something being hilariously funny before I was old enough to understand what it was really about and got seriously told off by my mother who was horrified at my amusement. I ended up in tears. I hated being trouble and I didn’t know why she was so cross with me. It was to do with a woman being born with her legs apart and would need a ‘Y’ shaped coffin when she died. I know now that what I probably overheard was likely to be something to do with Joe Orton’s play ‘What the Butler Saw’ which was new and considered risqué, though I didn’t know anything about that at the time. I was thirteen and a naïve thirteen by modern day standards. My mirth was completely innocent. Had I known then what I know now, I certainly wouldn’t have shared it with my mother. This was the lady who wouldn’t let me watch ‘A Taste of Honey’ on television, around the same time, I think. I’d just got into it when she shooed me off to bed. She went downstairs to help in our pub and I crept back to our lounge, watching the film from the doorway but listening for her coming back. At the time, things in ‘A Taste of Honey’ went way over my head, probably the things my mother wanted to shield me from. During the last fifty-odd years, I’ve seen the film many times, I have the DVD and I’ve read the play. Shelagh Delaney, pure perfection.

The ‘Y’ shaped coffin comes from a famous quote from Joe Orton’s ‘What the Butler Saw’. When I was old enough to understand why my mother must have been so mad at me, she was no longer there, I couldn’t explain. She passed away later that year and I had to grow up without her and learn to steer myself through the abyss of life. I hope she wouldn’t be too dismayed at what I’ve read, studied, written and achieved.

At the age of thirteen, the names Shelagh Delaney and Joe Orton wouldn’t have meant anything to me but their written work was there, waiting for an older me and I have devoured every word, over again.

Joe Orton was before his time, lived his own life, took chances and packed a great deal into his thirty-four years before his partner murdered him and committed suicide.

Read at Joe Orton’s funeral:

Hilarium Memoriam J. O.

Some met together when he died
Not in the name of any God
But in his name
Whom they lost to the coffin,
The box which caused him endless mirth.
His lesson – which he would not read again.
Hilarity in death.
And now his censored spirit
In oblivion – free.
Perhaps it’s hard to see that
He’d have thought it funny – mad.
They will not weep for him.
They know that if they did
He’d think they’d missed the joke.
The joke that some would say
Was ‘in bad taste’,
And others who are calmer
‘Just a waste.’

                                         Josephine Crombie

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Crackle - Snap, Crackle and Pop

Harbour cottage, Isle of Barra

On our second trip to the Outer Hebrides, we stayed in a fabulous cottage on the Isle of Barra.  It was a restored and extended Crofter’s cottage with many original features including an open fireplace in the ground floor living area. The time of year was May, late spring, early summer and the Hebrides, though breezy, was warmer than expected. Too warm for a log fire but I could imagine the ultimate in cosy.  I read the guest book entries of some amazing winter breaks describing the sound of the crackle and spit of a newly laid log fire. I could picture myself curled up on the sofa with a book or letting my mind wander as I watched darting flames begin to devour the logs. The cottage received regular visitors and it was interesting to read how they liked to spend their time. Hikers, hill climbers, sailors, water sports or observers like me, all had their story to tell.  Someone had been snowed in, but couldn’t have got off the island because of the weather, so had to stay longer. Someone else couldn’t leave the cottage for days due to the danger of gale force winds. Nothing like that happened to us. It didn’t even rain during our stay. The Glasgow to Barra aircraft stayed on schedule, so did the ferries, which was our means of transport.  Everyone who had stayed when it felt chilly had remarked on the brilliant log or coal fire.  I wish I’d set it up just to see it, and hear it snap, crackle and pop.

When I was a child, the only breakfast cereal in our house was cornflakes. At my Nanna’s it was cornflakes or All Bran. Once, I asked for All Bran. It was horrid, but I ate it because I’d asked for it, and that is what happened in those days. If my grandchildren choose something then don’t like it, I’ll find them something else – I’m a softy. At some point, Kellogg’s Rice Krispies made it to our kitchen and true to the advert on TV, as soon as the milk was added ‘Snap, Crackle and Pop’ happened. It’s funny when you’re only eight and still makes me smile.

My first introduction to John Cooper Clarke was listening to his album, ‘Snap, Crackle and Bop’. It wasn’t the music, it was the words, the clever imagery of Beasley Street and Evidently Chickentown made me laugh. His appearance fascinated me then, about 1980, and unchanged, it still does. I’m reading ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ and trying to make it last because I’ll miss it when it ends.

Here is my poem for JCC,

Terza Rima for John Cooper Clarke, when Manchester became Madchester,

Those of the time embraced every word,
Listening in wonder to John Cooper Clarke,
The Bard of Salford who had to be heard.

Rapid from the mouth and skinny and dark.
‘Evidently Chickentown’, effing good,
He’s magic with words, bright as any spark.

His wholesome description meant that we could
Smell the inhabitants of ‘Beasley Street’;
Rich mixture of urban decay and blood.

Life, humour and truth, a picture complete
And painted with colourful language that
Reaches all listeners not just the elite.

So thanks, JCC, I know where I’m at
Laughing out loud at the poem called ‘Twat’.

Pamela Winning 2012

Thanks for reading. Stay safe and have the best Christmas you can. Pam x

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The Post-mortem of a Clown

When writing about comedy, and in particular jokes, the subject will inevitable become a discussion about taste, oppression, offence and bullying. It’s an unfortunate truth about funny, that is, more often than not, there has to be a fall guy.

So in the pursuit of the perfect joke, that is a joke that appeals to all, one has to understand how a joke works.

First rule of a classic joke is the SET UP and PUNCH LINE. A question has to be posed that is seemingly unanswerable with a guess. This engages the audience, sparks their interest and tunes them in. The question is intriguing, it stops the audience thinking about anything else. It is asked in such a way that it has the same stopping power as a slap in the face. 

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

With in seconds of hearing the question the audience becomes almost obsessed to the point of a mini frenzy.

“Come on! Why did the BLOODY CHICKEN CROSS THE FRIGGING ROAD?”

The answer, when delivered becomes a release of this tension and results in the laugh, groan or profanity telling the comic to leave.

The second rule, be surreal. The whole set up is designed to create the need for an answer and put the audience off guard. Chickens crossing roads is not a normal occurrence in most peoples lives. This sets up the non reality. If you make the opening argument too close to reality and maybe even plausible the audience will actually consider it as an idea rather than develop the need to know. 

Even topical jokes follow this rule only. The opening proposition usually contains the news story, this makes the audience take note. Hear they are not as much desperate for the answer, more anticipating how outrageous the answer is going to be.

“I can’t believe you just said that?”

The punch line still has be far enough away from the truth to be a shock rather than a plausible idea.

The problem with trying to find the perfect joke for all is the very high profile modern take on offence. A topical joke will, due to the fact that everyone will have an opinion on the news story, cause someone somewhere to choose to be offended by it. 

So the perfect joke cannot be topical, but it must be familiar. Rule 3, don’t exclude the audience.

The perfect joke must have the question, be surreal and yet have a punch line that will strike a cord with everyone. Something that you know everyone will know.

Who doesn't know what a chicken looks like? Or understands the idea of shouting through a door to find out who’s on the other side?

So the prefect joke is a non offensive, surreal scenario with an all too familiar outcome that everyone can understand and relate too. And I think I've found it.

Ladies and Gentleman, for your consideration, I give you:

The Perfect Joke

Q: What did the inflatable teacher, of the inflatable school say to the inflatable pupil?

A: You've let me down, you've let the school down and worst of all, you've let yourself down.

And if the description of why this is funny came after the joke it would be the post-mortem of a Clown, which just isn't funny at all. 

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Josh Knows Best.

This week’s theme ‘Comedy in Poetry and Writing’ has proved challenging. It has been difficult for one reason: I’m not funny. This isn’t a hyperbole to orchestrate a stream of ‘yes you are’ comments, it’s the truth, I’m really not funny (to adults at least). However, there is one person that I can always make laugh, but he’s two years old.

The inspiration for this post comes from my two-year-old nephew Josh. I considered filming my operatic version of The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson, before realising that my out of tune notes and gangly skips are probably only appreciated by Josh. I wondered if sharing Poetsaurus – a scary dinosaur that stomps around the lounge reciting rhyming couplets – was a better idea, but realised it wasn’t. Therefore, I decided not to share my silliness with you. Instead, I thought I’d share a collection of haiku – inspired by a two-year-old who is far funnier than me.

From the perspective of a two-year-old

I
When feeding the ducks
Don’t bother throwing the bread –
Just eat it instead

II
If you want to see
Things from a new perspective
Then stand on your head.

III
Unscrew the rose head
Because it means that you can
Water more quickly.

IV
Fake, painted, plastic
Food looks good enough to eat...
Take a massive bite!

V
What is pretentious?
I just really, really like
Hummus and breadsticks.

VI
Jigsaw puzzles aren’t
Difficult if you forget
About the picture.

VII
Everything is red.
The grass is red, trees are red.
Everything is red!

VIII
Hide and Seek is great
when you hide in the same place –
You always get found.

IX
How old are you Josh?
Can you say that you are two?
Three, four, five, six, eight.

X
Teaching a toddler
To say fork will result in
A four letter word.

XI
It’s important to
remember to be polite
and always say ‘peas’.

XII
A black dog lying
In the sun on a hot day
Is called a hot dog.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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