My sister bought me a bread maker, so I’ve been baking my own bread recently. Now some people, undoubtedly, think this is a bit of a cheat, as what the machine cuts out all the kneading, knocking down, more kneading etc – but I choose what goes in there and the end result tastes fantastic.
You put all the ingredients in, set the machine (which is really a mini oven with a mixing blade) and three hours or so later, out comes a loaf.
I was thinking about the bread maker when I read about an event called NaNoWriMo on the mystery website, DorothyL. NaNoWriMo (I can’t say it without doing a cod Chinese accent) is short for National Novel Writing Month.
That’s the first little hint to be wary. Is your life so frantic that you haven’t got time for a few extra syllables? Even when – granted that language is meant to be a means of communication – your listener or reader hasn’t a clue what you’re talking about? Chill, guys. You can write shorthand, but do you have to speak it?
So what is National Novel Writing Month? Well, the idea is to write 50,000 words in a month. If you’re not used to thinking in word counts, it’s useful to know that’s an awful lot, but the shortest published novels are usually round the 60-65 thousand words, which is 10-15,000 words short. A usual sort of average for a writer is something around a 1,000 or so words a day.
Some writers, of course, write a great deal faster. Barbara Cartland could knock out a book in a fortnight or so, Edgar Wallace dictated a entire novel in the course of a weekend (it’s called The Devil Man if you’re curious) and there are a good few others, most famously, perhaps, Robert Louis Stevenson who wrote The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in three days. However, these surely are the exceptions.
The point of writing is to be read. And, by and large, the way to write the very best you can, is to plan it. Then to write it. And then to go over it, however many times it takes. And, incidentally, take time to do lots more planning on the way. If you are bursting with inspiration, as Stevenson was, don’t hang about, certainly, but that story came to him in a dream. That means his subconscious was bubbling away with it for how long beforehand?
Surely the most likely result of driving yourself nearly mental for a month to produce 50,000 words is to have a sort of literary fast food, when, with more time, you could have a gourmet meal.
To go back to the bread maker, the flour, milk and yeast etcetera go in the pan, together with any added extras that occur to you. It all, to be honest, looks a real mess and the only result of tucking into the bread-in-waiting at this stage would be a long, thoughtful stint on the loo! But give it time and heat, those separate elements miraculously transform into a delicious loaf. So give it some time. Anything less is half-baked!
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Stephen Fry Gets It Wrong
I don’t know about you, but I love the TV programme, Q.I.
The main reason for loving it is that it’s presented by Stephen Fry who is dead funny, hugely urbane, unfailingly polite and very (not Quite as the programme title would have it) Interesting, with the amounts of facts, knowledge and quirky little bits of information at his fingertips. An ideal dinner guest? You bet. I’d even bring the wine. And the food. And my full attention. And bore everyone stupid about it for the rest of my life. He’s worth watching whatever he does, but sometimes he’s gets it wrong.
Last night, for example, he threw into the conversation (it was about the weirder ways of collecting tax, of all things) that there was no evidence at all – none whatsoever – for the famous census which took Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem. By the time he’d finished, the whole of idea of the Romans having a census, with everyone trooping back obediently to their place of origin, seemed downright dorky.
Now, it’s perfectly true that we don’t have the census record for Bethlehem in BC/AD whatever, but the Romans certainly did take censuses (or should that be censii?). They were a bureaucracy, after all and, like all bureaucracies, loved records. In Roman Egypt census returns were made every fourteen years from about A.D. 20 till the time of Constantine. Many of these census papers have been discovered (they were called apographai, the name used by St. Luke.) In the Venice Archaeological Museum, there’s the tombstone of a Roman Knight, one Q. Aemilius Secundus, who was decorated for his service in Syria under Augustus and who also conducted a census of 117,000 citizens. In the British Museum there’s a papyrus from Roman Egypt AD 104 which orders people to return to their homes for a census.
So although we haven’t got the actual census, to say that the idea is inherently silly seems – well, silly.
Incidentally, years ago, when things were a bit more settled in the Middle East, I heard a spokesman for the Bethlehem Tourist Board on the radio asking, in a rather despairing kind of way, that if people wanted to visit Bethlehem, could they do so at another time of year than Christmas. “You can’t,” he said, “get a bed for love or money in Bethlehem at Christmas.”
Some things never change!
The main reason for loving it is that it’s presented by Stephen Fry who is dead funny, hugely urbane, unfailingly polite and very (not Quite as the programme title would have it) Interesting, with the amounts of facts, knowledge and quirky little bits of information at his fingertips. An ideal dinner guest? You bet. I’d even bring the wine. And the food. And my full attention. And bore everyone stupid about it for the rest of my life. He’s worth watching whatever he does, but sometimes he’s gets it wrong.
Last night, for example, he threw into the conversation (it was about the weirder ways of collecting tax, of all things) that there was no evidence at all – none whatsoever – for the famous census which took Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem. By the time he’d finished, the whole of idea of the Romans having a census, with everyone trooping back obediently to their place of origin, seemed downright dorky.
Now, it’s perfectly true that we don’t have the census record for Bethlehem in BC/AD whatever, but the Romans certainly did take censuses (or should that be censii?). They were a bureaucracy, after all and, like all bureaucracies, loved records. In Roman Egypt census returns were made every fourteen years from about A.D. 20 till the time of Constantine. Many of these census papers have been discovered (they were called apographai, the name used by St. Luke.) In the Venice Archaeological Museum, there’s the tombstone of a Roman Knight, one Q. Aemilius Secundus, who was decorated for his service in Syria under Augustus and who also conducted a census of 117,000 citizens. In the British Museum there’s a papyrus from Roman Egypt AD 104 which orders people to return to their homes for a census.
So although we haven’t got the actual census, to say that the idea is inherently silly seems – well, silly.
Incidentally, years ago, when things were a bit more settled in the Middle East, I heard a spokesman for the Bethlehem Tourist Board on the radio asking, in a rather despairing kind of way, that if people wanted to visit Bethlehem, could they do so at another time of year than Christmas. “You can’t,” he said, “get a bed for love or money in Bethlehem at Christmas.”
Some things never change!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Decling Dolores or What's In A Name?
My pal Elaine asked me to come and talk to the Girl Guide troop she runs about being an author. This was part of a evening devoted to giving the girls ideas about what sort of job they’d like in later life, so we had a doctor, a chief and a teacher (all women) and me.
The doctor, the chief and the teacher didn’t have a problem I had; convincing the kids I wasn’t an Evil Genius. The problem was my name.
If I had to put my hand on my heart and own up, I have to say I’m not crazy about the name “Dolores”. Hardly anyone can spell it and precious few can say it from a standing start. When I was a kid, my friend Anne’s mother used to sing an old Bing Crosby number, How I love the kisses of Dolores, every time I walked through the door. This was trying.
Moving on to secondary school, we did Latin. Wow. What an absolute scream. I mean, it’s bad enough trying to address a table (mensa, mensam, mensae – who wants to say all that to a table?) followed by the side-splitting moment when we – we being thirty-five thirteen year-olds, all anxious to point out one another’s shortcomings - reached the Third Declension and My Name was declined, so to speak.
Dolor, Doloris, Dolori, Dolorem, Dolore in the singular (and there was only one of me) or Dolores, Dolorum, Doloribus, and - I know it sounds like repetition but it’s the Accusative and Ablative - back to Dolores and Doloribus.
At this point Life teaches us it could be worse. I mean, I could have been Doloribus… Which sounds as if a kind Municipal Authority runs a transport service just for Me, but would (I feel this instinctively) have caused Hilarity.
The trouble is, however you decline it, the word Dolores means Pain, Grief and Suffering.
And I’d decline all that, no problem.
It’s because of the meaning of the word Dolores that JK Rowling bestowed the name Dolores on Professor Umbridge, Ministry of Magic employee, sometime Headmistress of Hogwarts, a woman whose idea of detention is to make Harry repeatedly carve on the back of his hand, in his own blood, the words, I must not tell lies. Add to that, being the most boring teacher in the world, undermining Dumbledore, flinging anyone in prison who disagrees with her and setting the Dementors loose in Little Whinging, Surrey, and you get a picture of an all-round bad egg. I mean, Voldermort is utterly evil, but Dolores Umbridge is just pants.
So, the girl guides reacted with alarm when Elaine brightly said, “Here’s Dolores!”
At least they didn’t sing Big Crosby at me. And Harry Potter was a good place to start talking about books.
But I still remember the wise words of Bertie Wooster, addressed to Jeeves; “My word, Jeeves, there’s some raw work at the font!”
Exactly.
The doctor, the chief and the teacher didn’t have a problem I had; convincing the kids I wasn’t an Evil Genius. The problem was my name.
If I had to put my hand on my heart and own up, I have to say I’m not crazy about the name “Dolores”. Hardly anyone can spell it and precious few can say it from a standing start. When I was a kid, my friend Anne’s mother used to sing an old Bing Crosby number, How I love the kisses of Dolores, every time I walked through the door. This was trying.
Moving on to secondary school, we did Latin. Wow. What an absolute scream. I mean, it’s bad enough trying to address a table (mensa, mensam, mensae – who wants to say all that to a table?) followed by the side-splitting moment when we – we being thirty-five thirteen year-olds, all anxious to point out one another’s shortcomings - reached the Third Declension and My Name was declined, so to speak.
Dolor, Doloris, Dolori, Dolorem, Dolore in the singular (and there was only one of me) or Dolores, Dolorum, Doloribus, and - I know it sounds like repetition but it’s the Accusative and Ablative - back to Dolores and Doloribus.
At this point Life teaches us it could be worse. I mean, I could have been Doloribus… Which sounds as if a kind Municipal Authority runs a transport service just for Me, but would (I feel this instinctively) have caused Hilarity.
The trouble is, however you decline it, the word Dolores means Pain, Grief and Suffering.
And I’d decline all that, no problem.
It’s because of the meaning of the word Dolores that JK Rowling bestowed the name Dolores on Professor Umbridge, Ministry of Magic employee, sometime Headmistress of Hogwarts, a woman whose idea of detention is to make Harry repeatedly carve on the back of his hand, in his own blood, the words, I must not tell lies. Add to that, being the most boring teacher in the world, undermining Dumbledore, flinging anyone in prison who disagrees with her and setting the Dementors loose in Little Whinging, Surrey, and you get a picture of an all-round bad egg. I mean, Voldermort is utterly evil, but Dolores Umbridge is just pants.
So, the girl guides reacted with alarm when Elaine brightly said, “Here’s Dolores!”
At least they didn’t sing Big Crosby at me. And Harry Potter was a good place to start talking about books.
But I still remember the wise words of Bertie Wooster, addressed to Jeeves; “My word, Jeeves, there’s some raw work at the font!”
Exactly.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Titles
I’ve been thinking about titles for the last couple of days. No, not those sort of titles! Not the Countess of Whatever or Lord Whoever or (descending down the social scale) The Reverend, Doctor or plain Mister, Missus or Ms.
No, I’m talking about book titles.
You see. titles are really important and it’s sometimes surprising for anyone who hasn’t written a book to find out that the poor writer can have cheerfully motored through hundreds of pages, thousands of words, zillions of re-writes and still doesn’t know what to call the ruddy thing.
It doesn’t always happen like that, of course. Inspiration struck almost right away with As If By Magic because it seemed to sum up the whole idea behind the book so neatly. It’s also a well-known phrase which (I hope) makes a prospective reader think they’ve heard of it, even when they haven’t.
The trouble is, a title has to mean something, and not just be a nice collection of random words. It has to say something about the story, not actively put off any of those rare, almost faun-like creatures, book-buyers, and - this is a bonus – sound good.
The latest of Jack’s adventures, which I’ve just sent in to the publishers, concerns a firm of coffee importers embroiled in various dark and underhand doings. When I thought of title Trouble Brewing I had a warm, fluffy feeling of satisfaction of having got it exactly right, but it took some considerable cogitation. Good, eh?
Off The Record is about gramophones and the race to develop a commercial electrical recording system. That’s OK. Dead clever, actually.
A Hundred Thousand Dragons is actually (obliquely I admit) about a hundred thousand dragons and sounds ace.
Mad About The Boy? is, of course, from the song by Noel Coward. It’s the right period, reflects Isabelle’s emotional turmoil as she tries to choose the right bloke, one of the aforesaid blokes is a Bit Odd (aka Mad) and that shrewdly placed question mark is meant to give a frisson of anticipation.
I wish, sometimes, I’d gone for broke and used Jack’s name in the title, such as Jack Haldean and the Murder in the Fortune-Teller’s Tent (it was actually called A Fete Worse Than Death) rather in the style of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Actually, I don’t half wish I had written a book called Jack Haldean and the Philosopher’s Stone, but some bright spark would probably say I’d copied it or something. They’d probably say the same thing if I turned out Jack Haldean and Pride and Prejudice or even Jack Haldean and the Flopsy Bunnies. You know how people are.
But I didn’t.
No, I’m talking about book titles.
You see. titles are really important and it’s sometimes surprising for anyone who hasn’t written a book to find out that the poor writer can have cheerfully motored through hundreds of pages, thousands of words, zillions of re-writes and still doesn’t know what to call the ruddy thing.
It doesn’t always happen like that, of course. Inspiration struck almost right away with As If By Magic because it seemed to sum up the whole idea behind the book so neatly. It’s also a well-known phrase which (I hope) makes a prospective reader think they’ve heard of it, even when they haven’t.
The trouble is, a title has to mean something, and not just be a nice collection of random words. It has to say something about the story, not actively put off any of those rare, almost faun-like creatures, book-buyers, and - this is a bonus – sound good.
The latest of Jack’s adventures, which I’ve just sent in to the publishers, concerns a firm of coffee importers embroiled in various dark and underhand doings. When I thought of title Trouble Brewing I had a warm, fluffy feeling of satisfaction of having got it exactly right, but it took some considerable cogitation. Good, eh?
Off The Record is about gramophones and the race to develop a commercial electrical recording system. That’s OK. Dead clever, actually.
A Hundred Thousand Dragons is actually (obliquely I admit) about a hundred thousand dragons and sounds ace.
Mad About The Boy? is, of course, from the song by Noel Coward. It’s the right period, reflects Isabelle’s emotional turmoil as she tries to choose the right bloke, one of the aforesaid blokes is a Bit Odd (aka Mad) and that shrewdly placed question mark is meant to give a frisson of anticipation.
I wish, sometimes, I’d gone for broke and used Jack’s name in the title, such as Jack Haldean and the Murder in the Fortune-Teller’s Tent (it was actually called A Fete Worse Than Death) rather in the style of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Actually, I don’t half wish I had written a book called Jack Haldean and the Philosopher’s Stone, but some bright spark would probably say I’d copied it or something. They’d probably say the same thing if I turned out Jack Haldean and Pride and Prejudice or even Jack Haldean and the Flopsy Bunnies. You know how people are.
But I didn’t.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Harvest Festival and Stardust
I was thinking about harvests this morning (as you do).
I actually had every reason to be thinking about harvests, as I was helped the kids in church celebrate a harvest festival, a very jolly occasion that involved putting lots of little kids under a brown sheet to be Seeds. Seeds giggle a lot. Then there’s the pretend rain that waters them and the pretend sun that warms them and – lo and behold! – the Seeds all grew, giggling madly, were harvested and got gathered into the (pretend) barn.
It’s great how much pretending little kids are prepared to do. It looks great too, as the kids’ Mums and Dads brought in food, such as fresh fruit and veg, chocolate treats and lots of useful tins which were then taken up to the altar in nice wicker baskets and then to a home for homeless young people (if you see what I mean) where teenagers who are too old for care homes have a halfway-house before living independently. Cooking is one of the skills volunteers teach in the home and that’s where the fresh veg and all the other gifts will be used.
Living in Manchester (not your most pastoral of areas) it’s sometimes difficult to see the connection between things that grow and what we eat and celebrating the harvest helps not only the kids but all the adults involved take some time out to appreciate that our tin of tomatoes or corned beef or chicken ding microwave dinner actually did start off growing.
Being a church service, of course, there’s some very old prayers and hymns about God who created everything and everyone, and the stunning thing is that despite being a very old idea, its absolutely true that all the universe and everything in it (including the giggling kids and the tin of tomatoes) have a common source.
For instance, the cabbage that was on the altar has about 40-50% of its DNA in common with the kind soul who gave it, and the same can be said for the tomatoes and the carrots. And we can trace the origins of absolutely everything back to that moment of the Big Bang when the universe started and the first hydrogen and helium atoms came into being.
The stars are chemical powerhouses and within them formed heavy elements and the complex molecules necessary for that tin of corned beef, the can-opener and the human being to enjoy the sandwich. It takes a star to explode as a Supernova to get the right sort of enriched interstellar gases to form a solid rock and metal planet such as the Earth and about three generations of stars to get the right material to form our sun, its planets and the right chemical mix for life to get going. All the molecules within you have been in two previous stars. Wow. We are, as the astronomer Carl Sagan said, made of stardust. As I said, it’s a very old idea…
I actually had every reason to be thinking about harvests, as I was helped the kids in church celebrate a harvest festival, a very jolly occasion that involved putting lots of little kids under a brown sheet to be Seeds. Seeds giggle a lot. Then there’s the pretend rain that waters them and the pretend sun that warms them and – lo and behold! – the Seeds all grew, giggling madly, were harvested and got gathered into the (pretend) barn.
It’s great how much pretending little kids are prepared to do. It looks great too, as the kids’ Mums and Dads brought in food, such as fresh fruit and veg, chocolate treats and lots of useful tins which were then taken up to the altar in nice wicker baskets and then to a home for homeless young people (if you see what I mean) where teenagers who are too old for care homes have a halfway-house before living independently. Cooking is one of the skills volunteers teach in the home and that’s where the fresh veg and all the other gifts will be used.
Living in Manchester (not your most pastoral of areas) it’s sometimes difficult to see the connection between things that grow and what we eat and celebrating the harvest helps not only the kids but all the adults involved take some time out to appreciate that our tin of tomatoes or corned beef or chicken ding microwave dinner actually did start off growing.
Being a church service, of course, there’s some very old prayers and hymns about God who created everything and everyone, and the stunning thing is that despite being a very old idea, its absolutely true that all the universe and everything in it (including the giggling kids and the tin of tomatoes) have a common source.
For instance, the cabbage that was on the altar has about 40-50% of its DNA in common with the kind soul who gave it, and the same can be said for the tomatoes and the carrots. And we can trace the origins of absolutely everything back to that moment of the Big Bang when the universe started and the first hydrogen and helium atoms came into being.
The stars are chemical powerhouses and within them formed heavy elements and the complex molecules necessary for that tin of corned beef, the can-opener and the human being to enjoy the sandwich. It takes a star to explode as a Supernova to get the right sort of enriched interstellar gases to form a solid rock and metal planet such as the Earth and about three generations of stars to get the right material to form our sun, its planets and the right chemical mix for life to get going. All the molecules within you have been in two previous stars. Wow. We are, as the astronomer Carl Sagan said, made of stardust. As I said, it’s a very old idea…
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Goodbye, Steve
It’s sad, isn’t it? England crashing out of the Rugby World Cup, I mean. Trust the ruddy French. They’ve been playing dreadfully and we’ve been doing OK. Then, as soon as they come up against us – bingo. They play like things inspired and we continue to play OK. So that’s the end of early morning sessions round the TV, with dogs unfed, cats look quizzically at their bowls and the goldfish and guppies in their respective tanks goggling hopefully though the glass while the Gordon-Smiths go “Ooo” and “Argh!” and “Pass it! Don’t kick it!” at fifteen men on the other side of the television screen in New Zealand.
Yes, of course we’ll watch the other games – and come on Wales, you’re the only home side left now – but some of the sparkle has gone out of Saturday mornings. Still, the dogs, cats and fish should be happy.
I wasn’t happy to hear the news about Steve Jobs. He did something really special, by making the design part of the product. I first came across a mention of a mysterious thing called an MP3 player in a Michael Crichton book - Prey I think it was – and my next encounter with an MP3 player was when the young Helen asked for one for Christmas. It’s amazing how this stuff creeps up on you, isn’t it? Suddenly everyone had an MP3 player and I was asked to marvel at a tiny device that could store gadzillions of tracks, more music than you could ever possibly listen to, and CD’s were now outmoded etc, etc and the fact that you couldn’t actually pick out a particular song was sort of lost in the gosh-wowness of there being thousands of songs or tracks on a hand-held device.
But, with Steve Jobs’ ipod you could pick out a particular track. The ipod looks lovely, feels great in your hand and works in the way all beautifully designed products do, by simply working simply. It’s dead easy to use and lets you listen to music without being a geek or computer nerd. In the many tributes to him, it was said that he went over designs again and again before, eventually, they were right. This is so similar to editing a book that it rang a real chord with me. The first effort, the first idea is vital, but after that comes so much extra work to fine-tune it and make it the best that you possibly can. This is where the real labour of love stuff comes in, to make what you’re working on much more than passable but better than it needs to be. (Perhaps England's rugby players could take note.) We’ll be playing music on the ipod tonight while we have our Sunday night bottle of wine game of Scrabble and I’ll raise a glass to Steve Jobs’ memory. Nice one, Steve.
Yes, of course we’ll watch the other games – and come on Wales, you’re the only home side left now – but some of the sparkle has gone out of Saturday mornings. Still, the dogs, cats and fish should be happy.
I wasn’t happy to hear the news about Steve Jobs. He did something really special, by making the design part of the product. I first came across a mention of a mysterious thing called an MP3 player in a Michael Crichton book - Prey I think it was – and my next encounter with an MP3 player was when the young Helen asked for one for Christmas. It’s amazing how this stuff creeps up on you, isn’t it? Suddenly everyone had an MP3 player and I was asked to marvel at a tiny device that could store gadzillions of tracks, more music than you could ever possibly listen to, and CD’s were now outmoded etc, etc and the fact that you couldn’t actually pick out a particular song was sort of lost in the gosh-wowness of there being thousands of songs or tracks on a hand-held device.
But, with Steve Jobs’ ipod you could pick out a particular track. The ipod looks lovely, feels great in your hand and works in the way all beautifully designed products do, by simply working simply. It’s dead easy to use and lets you listen to music without being a geek or computer nerd. In the many tributes to him, it was said that he went over designs again and again before, eventually, they were right. This is so similar to editing a book that it rang a real chord with me. The first effort, the first idea is vital, but after that comes so much extra work to fine-tune it and make it the best that you possibly can. This is where the real labour of love stuff comes in, to make what you’re working on much more than passable but better than it needs to be. (Perhaps England's rugby players could take note.) We’ll be playing music on the ipod tonight while we have our Sunday night bottle of wine game of Scrabble and I’ll raise a glass to Steve Jobs’ memory. Nice one, Steve.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Puns and Feathered Friends
I was tootling round the internet and stopped off at my old mate, Jane Finnis’s, blog where she (with a truly awful pun) was writing about blue tits eating caterpillars that munch their way through horse-chestnut leaves. Here’s the link so you can see that somebody really does make worse puns than I do: http://www.janefinnis.com/
It’s interesting – or, okay, it might not be that interesting, but I’m going to talk about it anyway – why we groan loudly when puns are made. After all, they’re fairly witty, aren’t they? I think they’re a bit like the jokes in Christmas crackers. Because they’re meant to be awful, everyone can join in. If Christmas dinner was actually a feast of wit and a flow of soul, reminiscent of an Eighteenth Century Salon or dinner with Oscar Wilde, it’d leave most of us looking and feeling like numptys, breeding resentment and discord instead of peace and good will.
It’s the same with puns. They’re awful and they’re meant to be awful – even when they’re really good – so everyone can join in with the pun-fest.
One of my favourite puns though, is the pun that wasn’t. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, because it’s one of my favourite stories.
A pal of mine – let’s call her Ethel - was in hospital recovering from a mastectomy (admittedly this isn’t one of the most promising openings you’ve ever heard to a funny story!) when she was visited by her old friend, Yorkshire Sid. Now both Ethel and Sid were very keen bird watchers, never happier when crouched beneath a rudely constructed heap of twigs with a pair of binoculars, watching Our Feathered Friends going about their everyday business. Sid was lamenting Ethel’s absence from the bird-watching fray.
“Eee, Ethel,” he said. “I do hope as how you’re up and about and can come out with us again soon. We’ve had some belting sightings. We’ve had nuthatchs and finches and some lovely t-t-t-t (gulp) and other birds!”
It’s interesting – or, okay, it might not be that interesting, but I’m going to talk about it anyway – why we groan loudly when puns are made. After all, they’re fairly witty, aren’t they? I think they’re a bit like the jokes in Christmas crackers. Because they’re meant to be awful, everyone can join in. If Christmas dinner was actually a feast of wit and a flow of soul, reminiscent of an Eighteenth Century Salon or dinner with Oscar Wilde, it’d leave most of us looking and feeling like numptys, breeding resentment and discord instead of peace and good will.
It’s the same with puns. They’re awful and they’re meant to be awful – even when they’re really good – so everyone can join in with the pun-fest.
One of my favourite puns though, is the pun that wasn’t. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, because it’s one of my favourite stories.
A pal of mine – let’s call her Ethel - was in hospital recovering from a mastectomy (admittedly this isn’t one of the most promising openings you’ve ever heard to a funny story!) when she was visited by her old friend, Yorkshire Sid. Now both Ethel and Sid were very keen bird watchers, never happier when crouched beneath a rudely constructed heap of twigs with a pair of binoculars, watching Our Feathered Friends going about their everyday business. Sid was lamenting Ethel’s absence from the bird-watching fray.
“Eee, Ethel,” he said. “I do hope as how you’re up and about and can come out with us again soon. We’ve had some belting sightings. We’ve had nuthatchs and finches and some lovely t-t-t-t (gulp) and other birds!”
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