I am not dead. I just had an identity crisis / holiday and wasn't sure if I should keep this going. But of course I should. Where else can I put all the ingenious ideas I have that other people seem to not appreciate, like this lolcat:
icanhascheezburger doesn't seem to want any of it but it makes me lol. More soon!
(See! Even existentialist Swedish arthouse directors smile from time to time!)
So it's goodbye to Ingmar Bergman. Better and wiser obituaries will be written, but I need to publicly say this:
THANK YOU for being a cinematic and poetic genius.
THANK YOU for being quick to embrace the medium of television when so many auteurs are - even now - dismissive of it
(and for creating the best evocation of family Christmas in Old Scandinavia I know).
THANK YOU for staying angsty till the end - old age complacency is for suckers.
But most of all,
THANK YOU for this wonderful wonderful quote (from Fanny & Alexander):
"Om det finns en gud då er han en skit och piss gud som jag skulle vilja sparka i röven"
("If there is a god then he is a shit and piss god and I'd like to kick him in the ass").
Like I said, poetic genius.
Tack, av hjärtat, TACK.
I know it’s been ages and I’m sort of living in Japan now which is something but since the culture shock of that hasn’t really set in yet, and so consequently all I have to say is stuff like “OMG my apartment’s massive and a dinner tray of sushi is only £2” which goes directly into the “and then I had to wait an HOUR for a bus” blog territory I am trying so hard to avoid (but I had to get that sushi comment in, fnar), here goes.
First, I AM living in Japan now and drunk while writing this but posting anyway as I only get to go online about once a week at the moment (but I live near Hiroshima, yippee!) so if this is not up to usual standards, whatever they be, I apologise.
Second, please read the jokes I posted in the last blog. I know they are hideous, but you will need them to feel the full benefit.
Got that? Okay. So I know and accept that a lot of the fun of these so-called funnies was probably lost in translation, and that furthermore, taken out of context, many a good story loses its comic appeal.
But on the other hand, consider this: jokes 1, 2 and 4 come from a Bulgarian David Letterman of sorts, and frankly, as un-subtle and un-funny as the L-man is, this show makes him look like the king of understatement. At least his show does not feature, as regulars, 20 dancers in bikinis and a man in a bald wig making shagging moves at everything female. It just has that creepy band leader in sunglasses, which I’d frankly take any day over this, that’s how bad it is. Not that I am prejudist or anything, but how funny are the jokes in a show of this kind going to be? I actually witnessed bald wig guy making the prison skit. It was painful. And not good painful in an Office kind of way. Except perhaps on some sort of meta-level that I’d really rather not be part of where you actually LIVE the embarrassment.
And although I accept that joke number 3 might be funny if told by the right person in the right way (in fact Michael Caine does exactly this in Children Of Men, but then Caine is pretty much God), I find it hard to imagine anyone, even Woody Allen’s voice with Peter Kaye’s accent from Eddie Izzard’s head with, you know, Gareth Keenan’s haircut, making number five fly.
And the above (or rather, below) “jokes” were just the ones that were simply unfunny. I haven’t even mentioned the ones that managed to be unfunny as well as sexist / racist / homophobic / nationalistic etbloodycetera. As for sexism, the bikini’d dancers are part of a general Balkan slut thing, especially obvious on the Balkan music channel (yes there is such a thing). The boys were all dressed up properly and making sexy with their eyes as per bloody usual (but as for my annoyance with the general coyness about male sex appeal, there will be other blogs). The girls on the other hand featured on the complete other end of the spectrum, objectified and sexualised in a way that can shock even in these Pussycat hardened times. By far the worst was a video taking place in a fire station, featuring five girls in bikinis, singing and cavorting. Now, this indeed sounds no worse than the Pussycat Dolls. And it isn’t. It’s just that poor fashion and invariably low production values give them that true porn feel. That most singers tend to have breast and lip implants (complete with that porno classic, the hard lip liner) just completes the look.
But this isn’t the worst part. The worst part is having just written a Masters dissertation focusing on the sexualised female body and being publicly invited (=forced) to applaud what great bodies Bulgarian girls have by one’s dad (“better than Madonna.” Yes he said that).
As for racism, here is just one joke, by way of example, and a milder one at that. About Thierry Henry: “Oh, there’s a typical Frenchman”. This is funny because Henry is black. And poor Henry gets it bad in Denmark too, like the “intellectual” journalist from Weekendavisen who believed it was a compliment to call him “the Cirkelpigen’s son”, Cirkelpigen being a drawing of a black woman featured on Danish coffee for about a century. Yeah, she’s beautiful, but it’s a brand, not a real woman, moreover it’s a stereotyped African woman, a leftover from a time that was unmistakeably racist, at least in the sense of “she exemplifies all African women”. It’s just really weird and odd. And it will never, ever be a compliment. The fact that she doesn’t even look anything like the lovely Henry just adds to the general insult of it all.
So what do you do in the barrage of all this unfunniness? I tried calmly not laughing and, when nudged, I suggested that none of this had been officially funny for at least fifty years, and even before then, it wasn’t actually funny either. The answer to this? That old gem, “it’s just our humour.” To which the only appropriate reply, really, is that of Yaya of ANTM Cycle 3. After Ann dismisses having written “clean your shit” on Cassie’s $6 low-carb brownies as a “joke” Yaya responds with characteristic appropriateness, “Some people think it’s funny to kill people. That doesn’t make it fun.”
But back to the jokes. They remind me of what the great Richard Tuck once told me at Harvard (not really, but my then-beau snuck me into one Tuck seminar and I grabbed enough nuggets to occasionally pretend I did in the words of the mighty Reese W, “go there”). So anyway, as Tuck told me, “Nothing at all is funny before the 20th Century and very little after that.” He’s more or less right, I think, and might I add, “hardly anyone”. Telling a joke is really a rather difficult thing as is amply illustrated in this Alan Partridge scene (oh come off it, this is a Coogan-dedicated site, what did you expect? At least this is the first time I’ve mentioned Partridge since my inaugural post). So here is Sonja’s funny story:
“Brilliant story to tell.
"Last day I was in coffee shop where I work.
"And then man came in and he said he wanted coffee.
“He was smelly man.
“Tomek did not like him.
“Tomek said we didn’t have any coffee. (Laughs)
“And then –
“ - the man just went!”
(Laughs)
Okay, so I am not entirely comfortable with the “Eastern-Europeans-are-stupid” vibe of this scene, and of Sonja in general. I am however, entirely comfortable with the “Eastern-Europeans-are-not-funny” vibe going on here. On the audio commentary (again, are you really surprised?) Armando Iannucci mentions that the point here is about the sort of “European humour” (French sitcoms are mentioned) that “you can’t even begin to find funny.” What he doesn’t make clear is that it’s really not so much about the jokes themselves, but about how they’re executed. Sonja’s story belongs to the same stock as Monty Python’s dead parrot sketch: a shop assistant denying the completely obvious. It could be funny. It was probably hilarious when it happened. But Sonja’s just crap at telling a funny anecdote, as are most people.
This is the problem. Most people have some understanding of their own skills as relates to e.g., drawing or singing. Even if they over- or underestimate themselves they are at least aware of this crucial thing: it is a question of skill which one can possess to a greater or lesser degree. Not so, alas, with joke-telling. People think this can be done with little thought and no preparation. Nothing could be wronger. Maybe we should introduce comedy karaoke, playing mute versions of, e.g. “Play It Again, Sam” for people to practise. Better yet, introduce some sort of comedy licence, without which one is not allowed to tell jokes. Language-specific too, with ability to retain laugh-value in translation vigorously tested, allowing for no more than a 10% loss in comedy value.
All this can only come too late for poor me in Bulgaria, stuck as it is in that odd timeless-yet-off-all-times vortex of post-Communist countries, where The Scorpions’ “Wind of Change” still bleets through the streets, where Chris Rea is considered the avant-garde and where things that are just not funny anymore
still are.
In order not to end on a completely suicidal note, I did hear one funny story while I was there. This was told by a local policeman: “Recently we have had a lot of Japanese people come over here and sure, their culture is very different from ours. But after some time, even some of them learn to steal.” Self-deprecating? Playing on, but not confirming prejudice? Look out Bulgaria, the 20th century is coming atcha like Cleopatra. Next thing you know, your popstars will be wearing lipgloss.
... is funny. I fear the Bulgarians may have the worst sense of humour in the world.
Joke # 1: "My name is Svetoslav Svetkov. I want to get married, but where is my wife?"
Joke # 2:
A: "How long have you been in prison?"
B: "30 years."
A: "!"
B: "Yes, I was born there."
Joke # 3: All the storks have left, that's why there aren't enough babies in Bulgaria.
Joke # 4: It's raining outside, but I'm inside so I don't care!
Joke # 5: (This one is really drawn-out, but don't worry, it brings its own reward: it's even less funny than the rest.)
Three old ladies are talking. The first lady says:
"My husband went to the shop and asked to buy some soap. The shop assistant said, only if you eat it, so he did and he came home farting bubbles."
Says old lady number two:
"That's nothing. My husband went to buy soap and the shop assistant said, only if you eat it, and so he did and for the next week, every time he opened his mouth bubbles came out."
"You both don't know you're born!" cried wifie number three. "My husband went to the same shop to buy some nails. The shop assistant said the same thing: only if you eat them. So my husband did and when he came home he coughed one up and it spiked the cat!"
Joke # 6: This blog.
I am sorry. Even my very modest promises seem unliveable-up-to at the moment. There are excuses. I am moving to Japan tomorrow, and surprisingly, the amount of organising and bureacracy associated with that has drained most of my time and all of my funny bone. I'm such a spoilt EU-brat, moving countries is meant to be totally easy, you're not meant to have to deal with hassle like visas and heath checks and shit. This is my secret. I claim to be an Internationalist, but really I am just lazy.
Whatevs, I am truly sorry and there is a much longer blog to follow the above Bulgarian jokes, but when it will be added is for now unclear. Just have a little faith and, meanwhile, have fun with this superior site: http://www.gearchange.org/. It is my dream to one day create a "flats-in-Dagenham" website (i.e. that "powerful" drum intermezzo favoured by so many Eurovision hopefuls and possibly most perfectly exemplified by the EastEnders intro). But for now this will do.
And if this portrait of interspecies friendship does not melt your heart, go watch Bulgarian sitcoms for eternity.
Most people who have either read Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting or seen the film of the same name will remember a character named Francis Begbie. Also known as 'Franco' among his friends, this violent psychopath does not consider any kind of brutality below him, punching up innocent bystanders, mates and pregnant girlfriends without discrimination.
Put simply, the man terrorises everything in his vicinity and aside from a pint now and again, aggro, fear and broken bones are all anyone can expect from a friendship with Francis Begbie.
So why do his 'friends' stick with him? Why even get involved with someone who is clearly nothing but bad news? Because they have no choice. As protagonist Renton points out, you'd have to leave Glasgow and all your family and friends for good and never ever come back if you want to sever links with Begbie and stay alive. Nor could you, as long as you are part of his daily landscape, simply ignore him in the first place, since with a guy like Begbie, complete lack of attention from someone he doesn't know is as good a reason as any to start a fight. Given this choice, you're better off trying to be his friend.
The really amazing thing about the character, though, is that people like Begbie truly exist. Young men full of rage who for whatever reason (I don't wish to excuse them, but nor do I belong to the 'a good smacking will sort them out' brigade. There are complex reasons for behaviour. Let's leave it at this) turn into violent bullies who terrorise the estate.
I bumped into one of these people just after New Year’s. I was up in Manchester visiting a friend, and we'd had a late night out. Now, as most people will know, when going home after a night out it is important to be vigilant. Violence tends to lurk beneath the surface on the night bus and in the taxi queue. It's generally not a good idea to provoke people, nor is it a very clever idea to start conversations with shifty looking geezers with the wolf in their eyes. We all heard, and loved, the Kaisers' "I Predict A Riot" because it was bloody true.
I know this, and you know this. Manchester city night bus drivers, however, do not know this. Here's what happened.
We get to the bus stop just as the night bus drives up and starts letting people out. Naturally my friend runs at it to make sure it doesn't leave without us. The bus driver, however, doesn't see her and closes the door unwittingly on her as she enters the bus. It's an honest mistake and there was no harm done - this is not the 19th Century and the bus doors had an automatic rebuff function that meant my friend was not crushed within an inch of her life.
However, this sequence of events is witnessed by two punters waiting to get on the same bus. One of these I will name ‘Franco’, partly because I never caught his name, partly because of his similarity to Begbie (and to Spanish dictators). The other, I shall name ‘Ank-nee’, I guess his real name is Anthony, but this is how Franco referred to him and I feel it helps to use his pronunciation to contextualise the sheer sense of dread of being in his presence.
Franco, possessing that bizarre chivalrousness-combined-with-misogyny that violent thugs so often have, started laying into the bus driver about his behaviour with the classic sentence: "You've got to respect the bird" which actually is so akin to this Trainspotting dialogue between Simon (Sick Boy) and Renton (Rent Boy) it's scary:
- There’s a slim chicky! ah sarcastically observe.
- Fuck off ya sexist cunt, the Rent Boy says.
[…]
- The fact that you use the term ‘cunt’ in the same breath as ‘sexist’, shows that you display the same muddled, fucked-up thinking oan this issue as you do oan everything else.
But that’s by the by. Begbie is not involved in this dialogue. This is just to underscore that Welsh is an observational genius on a million different levels.
But back to Franco. By now, he has started banging hard at the glass partition between the bus driver and himself, shouting very very loudly that he should "apologise to the bird."
Now, the point is, if he actually gave a flying fist about what happened to my friend, he would have left it at that, because we tried our best to diffuse the situation, telling him she was fine, that it wasn’t the driver’s fault, and that it was just an accident.
Of course this feller didn't care, and he kept the bus for the better part of ten minutes, going in and out of it, shouting and kicking, and arguing with the bus driver, whom, as I mentioned, did not know how to handle aggro and made the whole thing worse by being offensive back at Franco. He also insisted he take the next bus but Franco refused although all this time, Ank-nee was waiting outside, politely tugging at Franco's sleeve every few minutes, trying to make him get out and wait for the next bus, but clearly not daring to do anything more forceful.
Now, when you are having an argument with someone whose own friend is obviously afraid of him, it's generally a good idea to back off. When said friend ended up sitting down far away from Franco once inside the bus, we knew there was trouble. We did, however, bravely stay in our seats (it’s amazing what the dread of waiting for the next night bus can make people do) and thankfully for us, Ank-nee was back with Franco soon enough, thus keeping him entertained. "Ank-nee, Ank-nee, Ank-nee," sounded the cry from the backseat (where else) until finally Ank-nee relented and joined Franco at the back where he was happily trying to smash the window with his feet, or something (I didn't look).
He also continued his monologue about the bus driver and how he was an "alien" (this means he was black) and how he has different morals, morals that, you guessed it, don't include “respecting birds."
During the one-way conversation, it also emerged that Ank-nee had denied Franco the option to crash at his place that night. Another bad sign, but we were now well out of the city and in a dodgy part of the outskirts probably (I imagined) patrolled by gangs of Francos as night. So no getting out for us. The rest of the bus drive was taken up by Franco dialling various birds (this is at 2am in the morning) and bullying them into letting him stay over. On the phone, he repeated the story about the bird and the alien happily, showing himself off as the bird-respecting knight. He did get a place to stay, and got off a couple of stops before Ank-nee, banging the driver's glass one final time for good measure.
Well, nothing happened to us, and nothing probably would have (as contradictory as the chivalry of people like Franco is, it is often real and though some would, many a hard man really never would hit ‘a bird’). Ank-nee, however, is not so lucky. He might have got out of having Franco stay over, but as long as he lives in Manchester, he won’t be able to get out of Franco’s company.
Anthony got off just a few stops before our own. As he walked past the bus, slumped against the rain (I'm not trying to be poetic here, it’s just Manchester), his eyes met mine. They were the eyes of a little boy, full of fear and hopelessness.
I hope he gets out.
