HUMOUR – GREGORYNESS

A LOAD OF NONSENSE

18/04/2022

I’m always amazed at the brain’s retentiveness for trivial nonsense whilst items of true importance are carelessly discarded, never to be retrieved again. In essence, if I regarded an item as funny then it will have been indelibly impressed on whatever internal structure it is which provides a home for these thoughts. I don’t suppose it is ever as simple as remember/forget. The whole memory retrieval process shows signs of being very complex.

As I grow older it is clear that people’s names are increasingly difficult to bring to mind. Most will recognize the feeling that they know the name; can almost see it bubbling up through the swamp; that they have located the index entry and the librarian is even now retrieving the document for them. But it is also clear that the rules of conversation demand that the retrieval has a time limit of, maybe, five seconds. It’s surprising then that we are so often guilty of starting a sentence in the knowledge that there is a missing component about two thirds of the way along. The calculation is that the answer will arrive before it’s needed. Given the necessity to offer some sort of solution within the five-second limit, the ever-resourceful brain comes up with a stopgap which suggests that the mental linkages are more complex than one might think.

I recently began a sentence which would require the name of a famous snooker commentator. It wasn’t there, but I knew it would come. I only had five seconds of course, or my listeners would conclude that I’d had some sort of seizure or had silently expired on the settee. So, I offered what I had, Steve Zodiac the well-known puppet commander of Fireball XL5. The true answer, when it finally came, was John Virgo. That’s mysteriously close, isn’t it? Something like a cryptic crossword clue.

Something similar occurs when I play the real game. I’m no expert but I can make a valid contribution to the clearance of a table. But, more frequently than is good for my confidence, I will line up a shot and work out all the angles, only to find that it is the cue ball which disappears into the pocket. As though I’ve calculated the correct co-ordinates but mentally applied them to the wrong formula. The outcome is the mirror image of the expectation. I can’t explain it, but since a snooker table is a minefield of physics calculations anyway, perhaps I shouldn’t be too surprised by this.

Even non-players will have seen enough of the game on television to know many of the stock commentary catch-phrases. “How’s your luck?” when cannoning the cue ball into the pack of reds. “Where’s the cue ball going? WHERE’S THE CUE BALL GOING?” And, given the distain that snooker has for the use of adverbs, “He’s hit that a bit thick”. But, without a doubt, the most memorable piece of snooker commentary I can recall, was so stupid that I felt compelled to record it in my diary sometime during the 1980s. “Jimmy White is making the balls talk. And what a story they have to tell”. It was only the hushed and reverential tone which elevated this word salad to partial acceptability.

Words are very important. Now that I have grandchildren it’s the misuse of words which can provide the biggest belly laughs. Two of them were in the bath one day and the boy was demonstrating his grasp of anatomy and physiology. “I’ve got one of these, which is called a penis. And she hasn’t. She’s got a China”.

My first job was with Oxfordshire County Council. I was young, and my humour was juvenile. I have a recollection of being very pleased with this COBOL computer programmer’s joke from the late 1970s…

“You have to be a bit of a character to have a slash in a binary field”.

Which is hilarious, obviously, and also technically plausible. But there was an earthier and more adult humour in the office which, frankly, shocked me a little. One of the women had gone on holiday and had sent a postcard to the office. It read, “Am writing this in bed. Wish you were here. Mary”.

In another place, another time, and a little older, I found that in addition to my normal duties I also had to run the coffee club. It was my role to buy in all the tea, coffee, biscuits and crisps which the office block needed. But after some years I got a bit sick of this and so devised a poster to tender my resignation. “Dear members, the coffee club and I have decided to get divorced. Over the years I have purchased over 500 bags of coffee, and I think those are grounds enough. Signed Bev R Age”. Yes, still juvenile.

But now it’s the senile things which make me laugh. There are, situated around Wantage, several very impressive developments of flats for the older generation. One has a poster which is intended to drum up business, but unwittingly offers a rather gloomy prognosis for the buyers. Set against a large photo of smiling, older people drinking prosecco and eating croissants, is the headline WELCOME TO THE NEXT CHAPTER OF YOUR LIFE. And a little further down, LAST FEW REMAINING.

Putting names to faces. That’s always been difficult. But putting names to faces you’ve never seen before – that’s on another level. In the town where I live, I’m quite well known. This is mainly due to a decade or so as compere at the concerts of the local brass band. With the bright lights on I might be looking at a couple of hundred people, but all I could see was a black void. The audience could see me alright though, and soon came to recognize me as the bloke in the dickie-bow who cracks silly jokes the whole time. The problem comes when shopping in the local supermarket and a complete stranger claps you on the back and says “Hello Andrew”. “Oh. Hello… er … um … matey”.

The problem has been exacerbated recently since I was press-ganged into taking on a part in a local pantomime. I played that well-known character, Gormless the robot. Since that time, more people than can have possibly been in the audience have come up to me in the street and said, “Hello Gormless”. In our church community we are often exhorted to watch out for new faces in the congregation and to make them feel welcome. Recently I spotted two likely-looking candidates and, having asked round to make sure they really were new, I engaged them in conversation. As the exchange came to a close, I touched my chest and said, “By the way, my name’s Andrew”. “Oh,” they said, “we know who you are, Gormless”.

A DISASTROUS CURRY

17/01/2020

It’s not that I’ve never cooked before. And I’m sure I’ve demonstrated an ability to follow instructions in other spheres. But this attempt to cook something nutritious for our tea left a little something to be desired. Rather like my mother, who used to blame her deafness on everyone else mumbling, I think the recipe may have been faulty or made too many assumptions about my skill levels, in spite of the rave reviews it has received.

The dish was to be a simple and quick chicken curry.

Now, I know that it’s possible to buy jars of curry paste which have been specially blended to achieve a desired effect, and their use would almost certainly speed proceedings up. But the idea of blending my own herbs and spices seemed to me to get right to the heart of the matter.
As probably everybody else in the world already knows, the process begins with the cooking together of the spices in a hot oil. So, in go cumin seeds, fennel seeds, chilli flakes and a cinnamon stick. Then a paste made from a whizzed onion, whizzed root ginger and six whizzed garlic cloves. And finally, garam masala and turmeric.
In most hands this probably results in a beautifully aromatic paste which will delicately flavour the tomatoes and chicken waiting to be added. But the danger signs were already apparent. The spices in the oil were emitting noxious fumes which induced a coughing fit and caused me to fling open doors and windows. The whole house smelt like a tandoori restaurant and the resulting dish, although looking like a curry, was something akin to a tindaloo – a dish normally reserved for sado-masochists.
Ann doesn’t normally like strong curry, but this was the fieriest of acrid products and caused her to invent a series of fanciful motives which might have caused me to produce it. Although a novice, perhaps I had sabotaged my own dish in order never to have to cook again. And, worse, given that I seemed to be able to eat it (since it was the only way I could think of disposing of the toxic waste) then this was clearly what I like, and by implication I’ve hated everything she’s cooked over the last forty-odd years. The curry had clearly gone to her head, the reverse of where it went for me the next day.
I’m guessing that the amounts in the recipe are merely indicative – so I will be making this again, but erring on the side of caution this time.
As an aside, I certainly didn’t curry any favour down at the snooker hall that evening where my jumper was still heavily aromatic after its experience in the kitchen.

WRETCHED, WRETCHED ME

20/01/2020

	“Are you sitting comfortably?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
	“Then I’ll begin.”
“I knew that mother would have to come into this at some point.”
	“Ha Ha Ha. Now can you tell me, in your own words, how you see yourself. Where do you fit into the spectrum of personalities around you?”
“Well, for many years I used to think that the world was run by my parents’ generation. I was always expecting a headmaster figure to emerge from the shadows, to admonish or reprove. And then, one day, this all changed. A wheel seemed to have moved on by one cog during the night. And I realised that the world was now being run by my children’s generation.”
	So, you feel passed over in some way, that you’ve missed the boat?
“Yes. In numerous employments, I have never really been taken seriously as a contender for a management position. It’s always been recognized that I’m a good team player, prepared to work all hours to see a project through, safe pair of hands, point out the direction and set him off – kind of guy. But nobody could see me in charge of a group of people. Then, one year, there was absolutely no other option and the executive was forced to ask me to lead the team. It was then that I realised where everybody had been coming from. I couldn’t see myself as a leader of men either. Fairly early on, in a moment of crisis, and losing track of where we were with various projects, I found myself shouting “I need a neater folder!” One of the office wags immediately found a large, yellow binder and labelled it “ANITA FOLDER”. From that point on, Anita ran all our projects and kept us on schedule. And difficult decisions weren’t made by me; I was simply relaying them at Anita’s behest. Similarly, it quickly became clear that I needed some help in managing my colleagues, and so another folder, this time labelled “MICHAEL LEAGUES”, was instituted. Between them, Michael and Anita, unpaid, ran the department – and the team went from strength to strength. I don’t know what became of me, but the folders, in recognition of their success, went on to much greater things. Anita became the chief executive case at Staples, and Michael accepted a position as a government attaché.”
	“Very funny. But you seem to be suggesting that in fact you are capable of running a team, but that you need a prop to hide behind. You wanted the team to look at the folders, not at you, as your decisions were announced. But you’re also implying that the much-less-able folders went on to achieve success, leaving you behind.”
“Yes, well I think I’ve always been able to identify authority figures both above me and below me. Everybody must be satisfied.”
	“Do you have an issue with authority figures?”
“I am burdened with personality defects which are not consonant with success as it is popularly understood. Probably the greatest, or perhaps I should say the least, of these is my overweening respect for authority, real or perceived. A memory which has proved impossible to expunge is of the day at primary school when the teacher told us that she didn’t want to hear another child ask if they could go to the toilet. To me, an instruction had been issued by an authority figure and, rather like HAL the computer in 2001 A Space Odyssey, I was torn by competing demands. The conflict was resolved by the puddle under my chair, something I could reflect on as I ran home in shorts. Careful, as ever, to avoid any roads with a hint of a Private sign, where the authority figure cannot even be bothered to identify themselves yet continues to exert their influence.”
	“I see, so roads with a Private sign, like your folders, are representative of an authority figure. The headmaster character in hiding, who might pop out and tell you off. And your primary school teacher’s edict simply couldn’t be contradicted or even questioned, and outweighed any shame at wetting yourself in public.”
“Entirely so. Perhaps my worldview is a little too black-and-white.”
	“Do you see me as an authority figure?”
“Of course I do. We’ve both contracted to take up well-defined positions in this negotiation.”
	“And are you fearful of me?”
“Of all authority figures. Even those which are harder to pin down. Like Society or The Law. Once, as a teenager, I spotted a ten shilling note in the road. Although only having a worth, in modern terms, of 50p it still seemed a lot of money to me. With nobody in sight to ask about it, I should have trousered the note like any other normal person. But the silent, all-seeing body of the law was altogether too powerful an authority to dismiss in this way. Instead, I took the note down to the police station and registered it as a found item. Then, after the requisite period of three months, I was able to claim my prize since, obviously, nobody had been in to report the loss.”
	“You’d satisfied the law, the unseen policeman – adopted a protocol which, to most, would seem unnecessary – and therefore placed yourself in an unimpeachable position. Safe to claim the ten shillings. Were you able to enjoy the money after that?”
“I can’t remember. I’m sure when I was handing it over in some shop, that I was happy to be spending money which was undeniably, provably mine.”
	“So, if there isn’t a handy authority figure in sight, you’ll invent one to fill the gap. Has there ever been an instance where a real authority figure gave you a hard time?”
“Once, long ago, I must have turned up at school with a bad case of bed hair because halfway through a morning lesson the headmaster invited me to leave the room and comb it. This would have been unproblematic if I had been one of those kids with a comb in my pocket, but this request had given me a real problem. At the end of the corridor was a cloakroom with toilets, so I ran down there to see what I could find. All that was on offer was an old bristle brush used to clean the floors, but I managed to smarm down my hair with this. A little wetter than I would have liked, and either side of my crooked parting little bits of damp toilet paper nestled, but job done. So, I was rather surprised by the nature of my reception back in the classroom.”
	“It’s beginning to sound like you feel that negotiation is impossible after your authority figure has taken up their stance. No matter what the likely outcome, you trust their judgement more than you do your own. Can you think of any reasons why you are prepared to be so passive?”
“It’s possible that I have a subconscious fear of rejection and perhaps then being unlikeable. I have been called some names in my time. A fellow college student once termed me ‘an inconsequential person’ for having failed to deliver on one or other of the social graces. And my grandchildren often refer to me as ‘Silly old Granddad’, for no reason whatever. In fact, the only person not to have given me a name is…. Myself. I have a profound dislike of the telephone. So much so, that I find I cannot say my own name whilst using one. It’s almost as though I don’t deserve to have a name. This can be quite a problem when trying to book a squash court, but the solution has turned out to be quite simple. My name has to be sung to a banal tune, like an advertising jingle. This lack of self-confidence can be picked even by very young children. When tucking my son into bed one day many years ago, he looked up at me and asked “Dad. Am I your only friend?” “Sadly, yes.”
	“Hmmm I’m interested by the ‘unworthiness of a name’ assertion. But you don’t have any evidence for inconsequentiality do you?”
“There are plenty of examples from throughout my life to amplify the point. In over forty years of trying, I have never once voted for the winner in an election. I was always the last boy standing whenever teams were being picked. Shortly after moving into my first house, a salesman came to the door and asked if my parents were in. Happily, they weren’t. The list goes on.”
	“So, would you say that confidence lies at the heart of your sense of failure?”
“Confidence is a strange business. I’m quite happy talking to you, and I would be equally happy in a small dinner party, but when there are more than nine people then I tend to close down socially. A pub situation is particularly problematic. Yet, strangely, when I speak publicly, which I do from time to time, there is no difficulty at all because, although I’m talking to a hundred or more people, which is definitely more than nine, I regard them as one audience. It also helps that what I say is scripted.”
	“I see. Well, this sounds like it could be quite a limiting characteristic. We’ll need to work hard to overcome this number-dependent shyness. And, finally, could you give me some insight into how you deal with stress?”
I’m not normally given to having a strong reaction to stress. You just have to get on with things, don’t you. But every now and again, infrequently, I will respond by not speaking to anybody. It isn’t because I’m depressed, or angry, or don’t have anything to say. The situation simply pushes me to the point where I can’t be bothered to speak. It doesn’t last for long, but my family don’t like it. They call it having a ‘mute out’. I tell them, some fathers knock six bells out of their children but the real bastards are the ones who go quiet.”
	“Right. Well, I think that about wraps things up. I’ve very much enjoyed our chat. Thank you so much for coming in. We’ll be in touch in due course, though I think it only fair to say that it’s looking highly unlikely that we will be able to offer you a position.”

THE INADVISABILITY OF APPOINTING AN ADVISOR

14/04/2022

Once upon a time, and in a land far, far away, there lived a beautiful princess. She was as wise as she was fair, and her loyal subjects were almost perfectly content. Her parents, the king and queen, were now very old and for some while seemed to have lost the plot. They were always getting the wrong end of the stick in an uncomprehending and often comical way. So, the princess had picked up the reins, and reigned on their behalf.

Life in the realm was idyllic. Temperatures were always ambient, and the light, luminous. The night had been carefully crafted to be as short as possible so as to maximise the opportunity for unbridled joy during the long day. And as for the loyal subjects; they were an eclectic, yet homogenized, mix of pixies, goblins and fairies.

“Lies” and “Deceit” were words which did not feature in the land’s dictionaries. Even the philosophers had great difficulty in explaining such abstruse concepts in their clever and well-wrought, explanatory parables.

Nobody knew where their food came from. Nobody had to; safe in the knowledge that it was wholesome and delicious.

All was well in the world.

As each carefree and cloudless day followed the next, people began to wonder whether time was running backwards.

It started as a rumour but quickly divided the realm into two factions. There were those who were seriously worried about the problem of temporal precedence, and the rest who simply dismissed the issue as arising from the use of a lax and ill-thought-through grammatical expression. The two schools of thought were irreconcilable.

The land had never known such a dispute. The horological problem, as it came to be known, could not be discussed without hackles being raised, insults traded, and the two camps winding each other up.

The princess was horrified and wasn’t really sure what she should do about this completely unprecedented situation.

Her parents, of course, were hopeless.

The princess consulted her administrative team but all they could suggest was that boys are sometimes better than girls at resolving issues of this sort, and maybe she should consider seeking outside assistance.

Well, as if by magic, such assistance was knocking on the castle portcullis the very next day. The princess was immediately struck by this person’s cleverness and the clarity with which he expressed his ideas, so she took him on as her advisor.

The advisor came from a distant part of the kingdom and rather shunned the limelight so this, in concert with his natural introspection, made him something of a shadowy figure. To her loyal subjects it looked like the princess was suddenly coming up with bright ideas all by herself.

The advisor took the view that the horological problem was a complex one, but that it was probably something to do with the goblins.

Although they should still be regarded as our friends, neighbours and colleagues maybe we should trust them a little less. Perhaps hold them at arm’s length. And maybe then each carefree and cloudless day would follow the previous.

Although dubious, the princess put these ideas to her people.

This had the effect of dividing the kingdom into not two but three camps. Those who thought that there had always been something dodgy about the goblins; those who still regarded the goblins as part of the family; and the goblins.

Pretty soon the goblins packed up all their little baker shops and went to live on the other side of the mountains.

Some of the loyal subjects now began to smell a rat. The absence of croissants, apple strudels and other delicious pastries was making them irritable.

And it was looking like each carefree and cloudless day was still following the next.

They demanded an explanation from the princess.

After some delay, the princess admitted that she had acted on the instruction of an outside advisor. But that on closer examination it was beginning to look like he had been planted by the evil count who lives far away over the sea. And, anyway, who cares whether time runs backwards or forwards?

The loyal subjects, obviously, didn’t understand the concept of “Evil” but, nonetheless, were happy to hear that the advisor had been sacked, and banished from the land.

The goblins received an apology, absolution, and were welcomed back into the community with open arms.

But some of the magic had been lost.

The nights grew longer, and sometimes there were clouds in the sky.

The failure in trust had somehow tainted their idyll.

The subjects, every now and again, felt less inclined to be loyal.

But the pastries were still delicious.