Lame Jokes

Lame Jokes

In a recent review of ‘Bounce’ for a publisher, the reviewer, a very intelligent and erudite man, commented that the ‘Jokes can be a little lame’. Although that is very funny in itself, the opinion did smart somewhat. The book does contain some silly gags, the Andrew Lloyd-Webber one being a case in point, but I do feel that some of the humour could even be described as subtle and rather good. Everyone is a critic. It did make me think about humour generally, and I thought of a joke for the next novel that is so subtle that I hope no-one gets it. I can be perverse like that.
It strikes me that there are three main types of joke. The very silly but strangely infectious, as perfected by Tim Vine. The terribly intellectual, to which one can only aspire, and the very, incredibly, ridiculously, dangerously brinky. The sort of humour which will outrage some but inspire the rest to incontinence, metaphorically speaking. As Marmite is supposed to do. Apparently. If you are easily offended, please stop reading now.
After I was released from hospital on May 1st 2007, I began to become aware of the world around me as self-pity diminished. The biggest story by a long way, and for quite some time, was that of Madeleine McCann. The story struck me at the time, and continues to do so, as ineffably sad. I avoided the shameful tabloid vulture-fest but did read a more considered piece in a Sunday broadsheet, and the horror which that family has been through is beyond tragic. Nonetheless, it was over a year ago and life goes on.
I was chatting with my dear pal Neil in the pub and he was complaining about his, now teenaged, children.
‘What do you get for infanticide these days?’ he inquired.
‘I have no idea. Ask the McCanns.’
‘That’s not funny.’
A little time later I was talking to the male part of a teenaged couple I am delighted to know. They were about to embark on a holiday in the Algarve very near to the resort at which the Madeleine trauma occurred. No doubt that had something to do with the holiday being a very inexpensive, last minute, t’internet thingee deal.
‘Have a lovely time.’ I enthused, ‘Don’t abduct any children.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Am I a bad person? If you are offended at all, please do stop reading.
One of the best books I have ever read was the true story of the ‘Bang Bang Club’. This was the nickname given to a group of four photojournalists who worked in southern Africa in the late ‘Eighties and early ‘Nineties. More specifically, they concentrated their endeavours in Capetown, Johannasberg and Soweto where there was an enormous amount of violence as South Africa lurched towards democracy. For some time it appeared as though ‘black on black’ trouble would blight the democratic potential for change and these four chaps were in the thick of things, capturing some remarkable images. Fortunately, the terrible bloodshed that happened did calm down, Nelson Mandela was elected and the World became a better place. Their popular name came from their habit of cruising black townships in their cars and, upon hearing gunfire, heading in that direction. Their collective stories make compelling reading.
Of the four, there was the man who wrote the book, was shot himself and is lucky to have survived. There was the chap who was the organisational one and made sure that pictures were sent to the appropriate places for deadlines. There was the lovely man who managed to smooth any hostility from the people being photographed, ‘They’re only taking pictures, not your soul.’ and so on. The fourth won a Pullitzer prize for one of his pictures. It was not taken in South Africa but Sudan, where they were having one of their periodic famines. He was commissioned to travel to a refugee camp and deliver appropriately shocking images. He walked around the camp using his camera like an automatic weapon; snap, snap, snap…. One of these snaps caught the compelling vision of a baby crawling across the dusty ground being watched by a vulture. That is the feathered type rather than a tabloid editor. He was awarded the hallowed prize and generally lauded. Unfortunately, praise is a fickle beast and he came somewhat unstuck. The problem always came when people probed more deeply into the circumstances of the photograph.
‘It is an amazing picture.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What became of the baby?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a photographer, not an aid worker.’
This did not go down well and, deeply haunted, he committed suicide a while later. The Bang Bang Club had a high death rate.
The Bang Bang Club consisted of; Greg Unpronounceable, who wrote the book. His name is unpronounceable in the Polish sense. One is reminded of the New York gentleman. Around 17th March, annually, all of New York is suddenly Irish and proud of it. There is a wonderful cartoon of two men enjoying the festivities that occur, one leaning towards t’other who is bedecked in green, ginger wig, dubious tartan and Guinness, and asking, ‘How long have you been Irish Mr. Walsovski?’
There was also Ken Osterbrook, another difficult name that I have, almost certainly, spelled incorrectly. Sorry Ken. As though he will ever read this rubbish.
So: the Bang Bang Club consisted of; Greg Unpronounceable, Ken Typo, Kevin Carter and some nigger.