Say Something Funny

I met my pal Donna for a coffee and a sandwich on The Mall this week. Donna is a regular reader. Hi, Donna. It was a nice day, though we sat in the shade of a big tree so it got chilly after a while and we had to move to a newly vacated bench out in the sun. Some schoolkids had left the change from their shop-bought lunch on the side of the bench. We left it there too. Maybe they came back to get it. It wasn’t much, so maybe not.

One of things Donna said to me was that I should write something funny on the blog this week. “Write something funny,” she said.

Donna has directed quite a number of my plays, so she has this place in my head where stuff she suggests has sometimes turned into plays and such. So, when she suggested I write something funny, it stuck a bit. It’s still stuck.

Sitting here at my desk, listening to Paul Simon’s new album, I’m a bit like Hooper near the end of Jaws. He’s getting ready to go down in his steel cage to try to kill the shark, and he’s got his diving mask in his hands.

“Ain’t got no spit,” he says.

I’m here in my blog cage, my blog mask around my neck, and I ain’t got no spit either… I ain’t got no spit.

I used to be funnier, that’s for sure. In company, back in the London Days, and even in my teens, I had a bit of a reputation as a funny guy. Kind of sharp and kind of fast. I think it’s still in there a bit, maybe not quite as sharp and quick-on-the-draw. I think the thing is that I don’t end up in company too much these days. Plus, the people who I do see know me really well. So they kind-of know my moves.

So, yeah, I can be funny… sometimes, but I don’t seem to be able to summon it up as readily as I used to. I don’t think it’s any reflection on my life or how I feel about it. Everything is dandy and a good laugh is always welcome. I really think it’s just that I’m not required to be funny so much these days. Perhaps that’s a good thing. Perhaps it means I am more contented and less insecure in myself. Less inclined to define myself by a joke or a gag.

Which is all very well but it doesn’t help me at all with ‘being funny’ this morning, when the birds are singing in the garden and the cat’s asleep in the hall and everything is pretty all right with the world… except… except… I ain’t got no funny.

In my experience, when you find yourself in a situation like this, it’s best to just tell a joke and go. Here’s a ‘theatrical’ joke that I’ve told many times before, possibly even in the pages of this blog somewhere. I harvested it from William Goldman’s novel ‘Marathon Man’ and it always makes me smile.

So.

This guy is offered a part in a Broadway play. One night only. He’s never acted but has often said how he’d like to give it a try. His friend puts him on to the gig.

“The guy who normally does the play is sick. You only have to say one line; ‘Hark, I hear a cannon’s roar,’ and then you’re done, straight on then straight off again.”

One line? He could do that, sure. All day he runs the line, over and over, ‘‘Hark, I hear a cannon’s roar.’ ‘Hark, I hear a cannon’s roar.’ He heads for the theatre nice and early. But his taxi gets stuck in traffic and he arrives late, terribly late. They quickly dress him in a soldier’s uniform and they push him out onto the stage.

“Remember the line, they say, ‘Hark, I hear a cannon’s roar.’”

The guy finds himself at the centre of a stage, in front of an audience of hundreds of people. Expectant faces all stare up at him.

“Remember the line, remember the li- “

An enormous bang goes off on the stage, right behind him. The guy jumps up in the air, turns, and shouts, “What the Fuck was That?”

Thank you and good night. Try the veal. Maybe I’ll be funny next time, even though you mightn't want me to be.

Your guess is as good as mine.