This is another 'Law of Comedy' that I remembered last night, and probably stems from telling WAY too many jokes that no-one else finds particularly funny. I remember thinking, back in The Day, 'Well, if nobody else is going to laugh, I'm going to!' And it seemed a pretty good motto to adopt (even if was self-serving), especially if, like me, after making with the funny you prefer the sound of laughing to that of tumbleweeds. Let's not forget all of those timeless adages about being able to laugh at yourself, and at life. It got me thinking of some of the laughable things I've done, and how true it is that if I wasn't able to laugh about these episodes in my life, I would surely be crying about them…
Believe it or not, I was a precocious little boy. My mother had taught me to know my own mind and to express it with as much dignity and courtesy as possible. Even at the tender age of 6, I knew what I liked and to what extent I was willing to tolerate persuasion to the contrary. When I was that age, my parents decided that we needed to make a long road trip to see my great-grandmother in Michigan. She was an old woman, and they thought it would be a good idea for my brother and me to meet her before she passed away. So we made the trip up from Tallahassee to Lansing, eager to bridge the generation gap and instil at least one or two good memories to be passed on. My great-grandma had other ideas… Great Grandma had a well-known and powerful motus operandi when it came to getting people to do things. In her attempts to entice someone to do something they'd otherwise prefer not to, Great Grandma employed one of the most powerful weapons of all: guilt. Now, guilt can be used with skill by lots of people in lots of situations, but no-one handles it like a grand-parent. After several failed attempts at asking anyone to do anything, Great Grandma would go right for the jugular: 'If you love me, you'll _____'. This worked on everyone, and she knew it. We all knew she'd do it, and we all knew that we'd succumb, eventually, to that ultimatum. Except for me, of course, and except for when it came to broccoli. I did NOT like broccoli, and I knew that I did not like broccoli. When Great Grandma asked me to eat it the first time, I politely refused: 'No, thank you. I don't like broccoli'. On the second time of asking, I repeated my rejection: 'No. thank you. I don't like broccoli'. Great Grandma knew she'd have to bring out the big guns. 'If you love me, you'll eat your broccoli'. Exasperated beyond manners and much to my mother's humiliation, I responded with a frank, 'Why don't you just bug off, lady?'. We left the next day, and that was near enough the last thing I said to her. When I was in the fifth grade, having JUST moved to the Pacific Northwest from a suburb of Memphis, TN, I decided that my slow, Southern drawl wasn't quite enough to make me stand out. (It was enough for them to put me into remedial reading, classes, though – it took me a while to convince them that not everyone who SOUNDS like Gomer Pyle thinks like him, too.) No, being tall, skinny and completely bumpkin-afied wasn't enough. After watching some promotional church video, I decided that what I really wanted to do to set myself apart was to wear an 'I'm a Mormon' t-shirt. So I had not one, but two printed up on blank baseball shirts and wore them with SO much pride (and joyful ignorance) that I was able to ignore the 'You're a what..? A moron?' comments and was big enough that no one dared to try to beat me up. It was probably an added bonus that my friends at the time were the AD&D-playing, pale-skinned nerds of the school – so my venture into uber-nerdom meant that even they had someone to snigger at.
My very first day of high school (having JUST gotten over the whole 'I'm a Mormon' fiasco), I was still doing my best to isolate myself from the cool crowd. In an unprecedented display of adolescent chivalry (and a blatant play for my best friend's older sister), I went to open the door for two hot babes (they were Juniors, for Christ's sake!). With my sparkling green eyes and butter-wouldn't-melt-in-these-dimples smile, I gallantly pushed one-half of the double glass doors and oozed a sweet 'After you, ladies.' They went through, saying something incredibly complimentary, I'm sure (although you'd be forgiven if it sounded like just laughter to you), and I began to follow. Unfortunately, being so very new to the school (and, apparently, to concept of double doors), I failed to realise that between the two double doors as a very hard, and very immobile steel post. You see, the other door of the double was already open and I just assumed that what was left for me was the whole expanse of the doorway. A large 'thud' and me ending up on my ass heralded to a large crowd that I was very much mistaken.
There are lots of 'you have to laugh' episodes in my life involving Speedos – not the least of which is admitting that there are lots of episodes in my life involving Speedos, full-stop. However, one particular incident in college stands out as a time when I really wish I'd thought a bit more about how what I say gets heard (as opposed to how it sounded in my head). I used to swim quite a bit, despite being absolutely horrible at it. And, being me, I wanted to make sure that I had the right equipment for the activity… so, in a quiet little town in West Wales, on my way to the local swimming baths, I bought my first pair of Speedos. A catching hunter-green number, with white accents, I marvelled at how it could be acceptable to wear so little in public. But I trusted the salesperson that this was, indeed, my size and proceeded to adorn them before jumping in the pool. In the group changing room, and in a last moment of self-doubt, I turned to the gentleman next to me, looked down at my banana-hammock and asked, quite innocently, 'Does this look right to you?' It was only after I saw his look of horror that I realised how what I said might be misconstrued. Needless to say we both showered, swam and left the pool without making eye contact again.
The last one I'll share for now is something I've only just been told about, even though it happened over 20 years ago. Now, I was a decent athlete in high school… nothing spectacular, but nothing shameful, either. I mean, there are plenty of 'laugh-at-myself' sporting moments: farting on the takeoff of the long-jump, going sideways and landing into the other pole vault competitors, admitting to the whole team that I scored my first ever touchdown with my eyes closed. I was an OK athlete, but I never thought that I would be remembered for it. So when, upon re-connecting with a long lost friend via Facebook a few months ago, I was surprised to read her ask after two decades of non-contact, whether I still had my track sweats from High School. When I replied that I didn't and why would she ask, she commented that those sweats had been legendary in our three years on the same squad. Our track sweats were anything but legendary: they were bright gold, baggy and this was the 80s, so we pushed the legs up to our knees. There must have been something else about those sweats that made them memorable to her. Turns out, that something else was my something else. Unknown to me, I had spent three years on the track team being the unwitting subject of many a locker-room banter regarding the bulge in my sweats. Clearly, I'm not now making my living as a porn star, so I can't claim to be overly well endowed, but I was a big fan of boxer shorts - and those sweats, God bless them, must have hung in all the wrong places. To add insult to injury, the story now is that EVERYONE knew about it… everyone but me. I really wish I'd known that before doing that oiled-up synchronised body-building routine in nothing but cycling shorts my senior year…
And this only just scratches the surface. I haven't touched on the romantic, or sexual, or just-plain-stupid mistakes I've made – and believe me when I say that there are plenty of all three of those. But the point is (and I don't blame you for asking) that we have always done, and will continue to do things that are so cringe-worthy that we will be faced with a choice. We can either decide that those moments are too much to bear and cower in the shame of our indiscretion or our badly-placed foot, or we can elect to adopt a sense of perspective about who we are, and whether that faux pas really has the legs to worry about long-term. If we opt to recognise the beauty of our own fallibility, those moments that were so horrendously uncomfortable become something else, something worthwhile. Choose to laugh at yourself, and those moments become side-splittingly, spit-your-water-out, laugh-'til-you-cry funny. At those moments in our lives, despite how humiliating they must seem at the time, we all would do well to remember that the world is a very big place indeed. Don't' sweat the small stuff, and try to remember that 'You don't stop laughing because you grow old. You grow old because you stop laughing.' Stay young: laugh at yourself as much as possible.
I was introduced to young man from the western United States yesterday. His teacher matter-of-factly said that I was a friend from college, who now lives in Wales. The look of confusion on the otherwise intelligent lad's face only started to dissipate when it was explained that it (Wales) was 'next to England'. I would have been shocked, appalled, frustrated, maybe even amused – if it wasn't for the fact that nobody, and I mean NOBODY, knows anything about Wales. When I mention where I live, I invariably have to explain the following things:
No, I don't know Prince Charles (or Princess Di). Or the Queen. Or Benny Hill. Or any other famous British person you might think of.
There is no 'H' in 'Wales'.
It's not 'in' or 'the same as' England… I usually ask the American whether he's happy to be called Canadian (or vice versa) to make this point.
We have running water, electricity and wear underwear (most of the time).
Yes, they speak funny here. Learning to pronounce places like 'llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch' takes quite a bit of time, practice and beer.
I guess it's not completely surprising. I mean, Wales isn't even recognised in the British flag – St. David's Cross is the only cross not included in the Union Jack – so if it's not given its props at home, why should anyone know about it abroad? But when you consider that Wales, as much as any of its Celtic cousins, has a rich, colourful past, connections to some of the most famous and powerful people in history, its own language and a legitimate claim to the discovery of the New World, it begs the question: why not Wales?
I can go into any major (and many minor) cities in the world and find my way easily to the local Irish pub – I know because I've done it. From Prague's Rocky O'Reilly's to O'Blarney's Pub back home. Irish pubs are as predictable as they are ubiquitous; anywhere you go, you're bound to find decent food, great banter, at least one good looking Irish waitress and a healthy mix of Irish tunes on the jukebox – from Enya to U2, B*Witched to Van Morrison. We all know about St. Patrick's Day, Leprechauns and the Gift of the Gab. You can't go many places in the world without seeing a shamrock; the Irish are everywhere.
And the Scots…? It's safe to say that films like The Highlander, Trainspotting and Braveheart, for better or for worse, put some idea of Scotland on the map. But even before then, you had John Logie Baird, Alexander Graham-Bell, Robert Burns, Lord Byron, Robert Louis Stevenson and, of course, Mary Queen of Scots. We all know about bagpipes and kilts, haggis and William Wallace. The Scots aren't nearly as famous as the Irish, but they still far surpass the Welsh in terms of worldwide notoriety.
So what's the deal? Why do Ireland and Scotland shine so brightly on the world stage, while Wales sits quietly in the corner, plucking is daffodil and munching on bara brith? It's not a question of culture or lack of national heroes. Scotland may have had the help of Hollywood and the support of literature to boost its international profile, but Wales has a rich, ambitious and bloody history worthy of any tinsel town epic. King Arthur…? Merlin…? Welsh! You could argue that Ireland's spud-fuelled diaspora sent them to the far corners of the Earth, spreading their legs, songs, art and beer along the way. But Wales was out there, too, sowing its seed in pre- and post colonial America, laying the foundation of constitutional democracy long before the hungry Irish arrived. Lewis and Clark confirmed the legends in the American midwest. If I had to pick the two things that have kept Wales in the shadows of its Gaelic brothers and sisters, the first would have to be an echo of the warcry of the recently much-maligned Mel Gibson. In a word, what Wales lacks most, is freedom.
Unlike the Irish and the Scots, both of whom managed to shake off the shackles of English rule to some degree, Wales has never been able to organise itself enough to go it alone. The Republic of Ireland, of course, gained its independence in 1921 and Scotland, while still part of Great Britain, re-established its own devolved law-making parliament in 1999. Wales has a parliament with some power, but for all intents and purposes, is still governed from Westminster. Repeated attempts at independence have all failed, except for the short rule of Owain Glyndwr, whose reign of an independent Wales ended with his disappearance in 1412. Wales, geographically isolated and relatively poor in marketable natural resources spends its days ticking over as a peaceful and obedient principality, despite a long-standing and deep animosity for the English crown.
The other barrier to getting to know, and to love, the Welsh is the one of the very things that makes them unique: the language. Welsh is a true isolationist tongue, having no romantic or Germanic antecedent - except, or course for the Wenglish that has crept in during modern times. We can all probably guess what a 'Tacsi' is, and that 'dim parcio' means 'no parking'. And then there's the modern classics like 'popty ping' which has replaced 'ffwrn meicrodon' as the word for 'microwave'. But, ultimately, Welsh (of which there are at least two distinct dialects) is pretty inaccessible to the western tongue. With 28 letters, including some real hum-dingers like 'Ll and Ff', it's unlike anything most of us will have heard before, and despite being the language of the bards, not very musical to the untrained ear. And whereas Irish and Scottish Gaelic are part of their respective heritages, Welsh is very much part of Wales' present, and very much tied into what it means to be Welsh. And I suppose you can't really blame them… the English did their best to stamp out the language, and to no small extent, the current vitality of the language is a testament to the durability of the people. So they've fought hard and proud to keep Welsh alive – maybe even at the cost of promoting themselves to the rest of the world.
Then again, maybe that was the plan all along. Most of Wales, unknown to most of the rest of the world, remains largely unspoilt in a rural expanse of winding roads, pristine coastlines and snow-capped mountains. Sheep outnumber the people, and I live in a village where people stop to say 'good morning' (or 'bore da') and bring you ice cream cones when they've noticed that you've been working in your garden all day. Even the capital of Cardiff is intimate and understated - a friendly place that doesn't seem that bothered whether you know about it or not, but will welcome you if you should chance to stumble upon her. You can't help but wonder whether Wales, as one of the world's best kept secrets, is that way by luck or by design… and whether anyone here really cares that you can't walk into a tacky Welsh pub in downtown Albuquerque. Maybe, just maybe, the country, like the language, is for the purists, and for those of us who don't mind making the effort to get to know her. This St. David's Day (March 1), celebrate the anonymity of Wales by joining me a pint of Brains' best while we sing a verse or two of 'Sospan Fach'. lechyd da!
There is something quite unnerving about setting up a blog. For starters, it means that I'm committing myself to having an opinion about something. Am I that opinionated...? Probably not. But I tend to think that some of the opinions I do have might matter.
Take Law of Comedy #1, for instance: Farting is Always Funny. Now, obviously, there are the exceptions that confirm the rule. I doubt very much, for example, that you'd agree with that statement if you've ever had the misfortune to suffer IBS, or to be around someone who's suffering. I'd probably also want to eliminate any fart that resulted in an unexpected and/or unwanted follow-through. But, in general, farting is funny. And I'll tell you why...
Farting is the great equaliser. Like pooping's lesser-known but funnier cousin, everybody does it. The people who tell you that they never do, or tell you that they don't smile a little on the inside when (not if) they do - they're liars. I do it, you do it, my baby daughter does it, Abraham Lincoln, Margaret Thatcher, Adolf Hitler, Mother Theresa... all farters. Ugly people do it, as do the beautiful; your bottom doesn't care how pretty your face is... fact. There is even a Facebook group devoted to documenting famous farters. And yet, we all try to act as if it's the most disgusting and unnatural thing to have happened. I say embrace the fart. Accept that, at some point in your life, your bottom is going to make a sound, and maybe even a smell, that you'd rather not have shared. And it's going to happen whether you like it or not, whether you fight it or not.
It's not it's a new thing either. Farting has always been around, and it's always been funny. Chaucer thought so, Shakespeare agreed. But they were hacks when it came to funny farting. The oldest known joke, in all of human kind, is about farting. From the Summarians, circa 1900 BC: "Something which has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband's lap." I'm not saying it was HILARIOUS, but it was funny... to them.
So I guess that's my first opinion: farting is always funny. The sooner we all accept it, the happier we'll be.
