The Old Dutch Sailor

Today I thought I would write. I was uncertain however, exactly what I should make my topic today. My initial thought was to write about something that has been of concern for me for the last four days. I find myself in a conundrum with the sensation of something about to collapse about my ears. I’m not entirely sure what that something may be, however I know for sure that it is not welcome. I received some news on Saturday past that, although something I already knew it, I had been successfully not thinking about. Now I can’t but think about it and I find myself enraged. Namely because the individual concerned was previously someone I had respect for, as consequence of his being close to a dear friend of mine (This is all jolly vague, isn’t it). However am in a pickle as to what to do. Just forgetting doesn’t seem to be working.

I will not though, make this blog about my own personal troubles. That would be far too sombre. Perhaps, when I calm down and can confront the issue rationally I will compose a little piece about the matter with all the nonsensical examples and witless flourishes that you may have come to expect if you read this blog regularly (or even occasionally). Instead I will tell you a tale that occurred to me a short time ago. It begins below:

‘I’ve come so far in my life, so far, and as my time comes to its end know this: I want to die in a little house by the sea’, the Old Dutch Sailor said, looking around at the kind faces about him, nodding and smiling warmly. ‘I want to be in a terraced cottage that looks out over a little stony beach to the sea. Like on the postcards, you know. With little square windows and a colourful front door – green … or maybe red. And a little path with some flower beds and a bit of lawn beside it that lead down to the promenade on which were pulled up four or five salty fishing boats, piled high with nets and lobster pots.

And I want to be able to hear my wife coming up the stair with a lovely pot of tea and watch her come into my room, tray in hand, and give me my cup of tea. I want to die in the rickety bed that I made myself, from driftwood bought in off the beach and a blue and white quilt over my lap; with my wife by my side and my children sat around the bed. And I want us to chat and laugh until I’m done, then I want to sit in my bed with my wife and kids and I want to gaze out of the window, with its cosy curtains, at the sea as it washes to and fro on the beach, and the clatter of stones and the smell of salt drift in through the window. And as I look out to the sea, at the waves with their white tips and the buoys and boats bobbing in the bay, that’s when I want to die. Right then.’

He looked around him at the kind and friendly faces of those sitting around him in their colourful robes and sighed.

‘I suppose I shouldn’t have come to the top of this bloody mountain’

The monks kept up their sympathetic nodding and smiling as the Old Dutch Sailor died, dissatisfied. They didn’t speak Dutch.

Humour - Is it just me?

What follows constitutes something of a departure from the rest of this blog which seeks, usually, to amuse, or at the very least while away the time that should be spent doing something more worthwhile. However, this is more philosophical in nature. If you are intrigued as to what the discussion may be of then you are welcome to read on. However, if that is too much of a commitment for you then by all means understand the argument in terms of the following sentence. I believe that we are mostly capable of understanding another’s perspective in every situation, except humour; we either do or don’t find something funny; we can’t understand someone else’s perspective on what is funny unless it aligns with what we deem funny. That’s it. That’s what I want to argue. If you think it might be interesting read on. If not, skip to the post about travelling. That one is actually funny.

I will open with a quote from Jimmy Carr (a comedian, mother) who said "Analysing humour is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested, and the frog dies". So on that note, let's begin.

We are, most of us, capable of perceiving both sides of an argument. Often we will rationally process that pros and cons of something before we act because that way we are more balanced. This ability to see the other side of something is extremely useful in life for the reason I have just stated, and because it enables us to get one better with the people we are surrounded with. Now people who know me may disagree with the following statement, however I believe that I am extremely proficient at perceiving and arguing the point opposite to the one I hold. This joyous ability I owe to the man who raised me (or ‘my father’, as he is commonly known) who was utterly incapable of giving a straight answer to anything. Even the most basic of questions was an opportunity for moralising or active consideration of the human condition. Do you prefer sandwiches or baguettes? Well, to consider this fully and on balance, we should begin by stating the obvious difference between the two: one is entirely encased in a tough crust and the other only fractionally so. Furthermore the baguette is commonly larger and more filling that the sandwich so it depends on the hunger that an individual has. On contrast, a sandwich is more likely to break if filled with a liquid filling (e.g. coleslaw) owing to the lack of an outer shell. However this issue can often be resolved with use of a thicker, stronger type of bread. Thus we must compare breads in order to fully consider this issue, so the problem lies not with the food genre, but rather with the medium. etc. etc.

Interesting perhaps, but not helpful. What is this man’s true opinion in that vital sandwich versus baguette debate? No one knows. It is one of life’s indeterminable mysteries.

Hence, I am quite adept at balanced arguments, as are we all. Mostly. However after due consideration I have come to realise that there is a gap in our understanding. A failure to perceive that, I think, we are all susceptible to. That gap is humour.

What is funny? Well, I think Miranda is funny. Especially the bit about the scary goat (S2E1). I also think Kenneth Williams is funny. Always. Lots of people don’t think he is funny. Why? I don’t know.

Think. How often have you heard someone say ‘How can you not find that funny?’, or ‘that’s just disgusting, it’s not funny’? I would imagine that you have heard each of those a couple of times. Perhaps not the latter; I was clutching at straws. I had written ‘or’ and couldn’t think of anything to add. Moving on. We all know what we find funny and generally we find the jokes that we tell funny. That’s why we tell them. For our own delight and amusement and to share that childish joy with other people who, we think, might enjoy the gag. However sometimes people don’t laugh. Why not? I have genuinely no idea. If something is funny according to you, then it is funny. You can say why it’s funny, but you can’t do the same in reverse. If something is not funny to you then it is just not funny. Allow me to illustrate with a well known example:

Man: Doctor, Doctor. I feel like a pair of curtains.
Doctor: Pull yourself together, Man!!!

Verdict: Funny.

Why: The joke lies in the use of the phrase ‘pull yourself together’ which can mean ‘get a grip’ or, in the case of curtains, ‘close the curtains’. A pun. Almost anyone can see that that is where the joke can be found. The joke lies in those few words. However it is either funny or not. If you don’t find it funny you will find yourself entirely incapable to seeing where the funny is, you know where the joke is, but not the funny.

I would argue that it is entirely beyond human capabilities to sympathise with a joke. One may be able to see why you like that dress, or enjoyed that book, or liked that meal. However to understand someone else’s humour well enough to enjoy jokes that they find hilarious is possibly only if you have, basically, the same sense of humour.

What about when someone tells you a joke while you are sad. On other occasions it may make you laugh but you are too sad. What then? Easy. You still find it funny but more of your consciousness is involved in being sad than being amused. Call that a criticism? Pathetic.

So, humour is for you and your friends. No one else gets it.

And I defy anyone to demonstrate otherwise to me.

PS this is a poke in the face to all those who have ever sad I am not funny. Yes little sister, that’s you. And little brother. And Leona. And Lucy. And others...

PPS I also think that this gives me and you a reasonable excuse for laughing at our own jokes. Why do we tell those jokes? Because they are funny. Would you laugh if someone else told that joke? Yes indeed. Is anyone else going to tell that joke? No.
Thus, if you tell a funny joke then laugh. Even if it is your own joke. I will, however, still judge you for it. Sorry about that.

PPPS I am aware that almost every post begins ‘this is something of a departure’ however that’s just me. I’m always departing. In an exciting departure I may begin the next post without suggesting it to be a departure. Which will be a departure.

Addendum: Apology

I have noticed with my eyes that the earlier post has one (several) glaring inaccuracy and I felt it was my solumn duty to highlight and correct it.

The man in the unattractive denim suit with the terrible grammar did not have terrible teeth. It was quite wrong of me to say that he did. It was obvious that he took great care of them and I respect him for that. I think that perhaps I exagerated the hideous nature of his person in order to better fit the stereotype of a mugger that I have him my mind. I apologise and can only highlight my general trauma and the stereotype planted in me by society for my negligence in the description of that man. He had fine teeth that he obviously worked very hard to maintain and keep shiny and clean.

Honestly, they were three of the nicest teeth I have ever seen....