American humor: Benny Hill, only without the plot

Statutory warning required by the World Blogging Authority: "This post assumes that the reader is at least passingly familiar with American kvetch art, camp culture, Depression-era movies,  early television comedians, and the Three Stooges. Be warned that this post also makes an oblique reference to a recent post in BritishSpeak's companion blog "Slap & Tickle", and that posts to that blog are ALWAYS offensive to some group or other. If you are unfamiliar with the former and don't follow the latter, please read this post thoroughly anyway. Although you won't understand as much as the more widely-read patrons of this blog , you will still contribute by increasing the average statistical time spent on this page by all viewers. In fact, the simple act of reading this entire notice, coupled with a long look at Elvira, above, has already countered the hit-and-run effects of over 31 Entrecard droppers. Every little bit helps. Thank you."

We have already covered British Humor somewhat. Witty, clever, cerebral, ironic, sarcastic, yada yada - designed to make you think, make you go "Ah! Yes! So it is! That's very clever! Yes, indeed! Jolly true, that! I say! Brilliant! Ha!" The thinking-man's humor. Lords of the pun and masters of the eyebrow-twitching double-entendre. Funny to Americans? Not so much. Let me list the names of the British standups who regularly appear on American prime-time TV: Ummmm.... there's... ummmm.... Right.

It's not that Americans don't like to think. Well, that too. But mostly they don't think one should HAVE to think about humor. To an American, more often than not, it is either clever and cerebral, or it is funny. Not always, but often.

Having reiterated that from previous posts, let's talk a bit about AMERICAN humor, why it isn't often clever or witty or seldom designed to make you think. And why American humor is, instead, FUNNY. If you don't "get" a British joke, you can have someone explain it to you until you DO get it, and then you can also say, "Ah! Oh! Yes! I see!" It's never to late to do that with British humor. American humor doesn't need to be explained, and, indeed, often evaporates under close scrutiny. You can't explain WHY you drop to your knees all watery-eyed, choking and red-faced, pounding the ground. You just DO.

Why is it funny when Curley Joe squirts the pompous mayor in the face with a seltzer bottle? Why is it funny when Milton Berle, not content with simply dressing up as an ugly woman, begins to walk on the sides of his ankles? Why is it funny when Buddy Hacket struts across the stage like a crazed drum major pretending to be a giraffe, screaming, "The highballs are on me!" Who knows? It just IS funny.

Those three examples are all dead now, just as dead as Benny Hill. Rest in peace. What other British comedians did I like besides Benny Hill? (although, in truth, I mainly just liked the half-naked girls on Benny Hill, and his shirts with matched-fabric neckties mostly turned me off to Benny himself.) Oddly, David Frost. I thought he was hilarious. Until someone once told me that he wasn't really a true comedian on purpose but was acting and talking like that NATURALLY. John Cleese? Sure. But again too clever, and you had to really pay attention and think about what he was saying. But I liked him pretty much anyway.

I am sitting here trying to dredge up examples of American "no-think" humor for you to roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders at. I was watching a rerun of "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" the other night on HBO, and it occurs to me there are several examples of American humor in that, although some of the scenes were admittedly too clever to qualify outright. Do you remember Big Dan Teague in that movie? He was the representation of Homer's cyclops (in the movie), played by John Goodman.

Do you remember the part where they are all sitting under that big tree after eating fried chicken from that restaurant, and Big Dan gets up and breaks a dead limb off the tree and starts whacking the other two with it? See... at that point you can just turn down the sound altogether and the scene would still be hilarious. Try it sometime when you have rented that movie. You often don't even NEED sound with American humor.

Perhaps that is the real difference - American humor is very often visual in nature. Seldom can you really turn down the sound with British humor. At least that comes to my mind as I think of the differences.

::Post is interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. Imagine the ring tone as perhaps the intro to Buddy Holly's "That'll be the Day" or similar::

"Max?"

"Yes."

"This is Elvira."

"Yes, God."

"Max, you've gone on long enough. Tell them the post is over."

"Yes, Elvira. Goodbye."

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The origin of Elvira:

New Year's disclaimer for all my blogs

A blog, I think, is a place where the blogger can stand up on his soapbox and give his opinion, right or wrong. The post doesn’t have to be true or false, right or wrong. It doesn’t have to solve any problems. A blog is only a pulpit. If the content is interesting, a crowd may gather.

And the “comments” section of a blog is the place where listeners get to give their feedback, their own opinions - cheers of agreement or rotten tomatoes of rebuttal.

It’s called “Free Speech” and it is one item on a very short list of things upon which both liberals and conservatives agree is a good thing to have.

I hope nothing on this blog serves to attack you PERSONALLY. I don’t care whether you are a liberal or a conservative or anything else in between. I don’t care about your education, rightness or wrongness or religious or political beliefs. And I don’t really give a damn what color your skin is.

In almost all cases, I am not trying to convert you: I am only putting forth my own opinions. I DO feel that the more information we have at our disposal, the more opinions we have for our consideration, the better and more informed will be our eventual choices that form and mold our personal value systems.

I hope you visit this blog as frequently as you can, and I hope you come prepared to comment. Those who come to clap and cheer and shout out their agreement are welcome, and so are the ones who think I live on another planet. I love to argue. But I am swayed most often by logic and truth and reality, so please bring a few facts along with the rotten tomatoes. Thank you.

British humor: much too clever and witty for American brains. Don't even try.

We have said this many times before, but it bears repeating: Americans need to stay away from British humor. It will only confuse you and leave you still thirsty for actual humor. It has many of the characteristics of American humor except for the funny part.

From the National Enquirer Guardian: "Woman gives birth on London Underground, considers naming the child accordingly. Thankfully the station was Kingsbury and not Elephant and Castle."

Dear fellow Americans: You should know that right now British readers are probably laughing their arses off. Don't yet know what an arse even is? Sorry - that was a different post and you will have to check the archives. Anyway, the British don't really ever actually laugh their arses off. They only snicker inwardly. Sometimes their lips twitch once or twice, but that's pretty much the limit.

Other questions?

How could a woman give birth "on" London if she is underground?
—S.B., Cleveland.

Is the funny part that London is underground? It isn't, right? I mean London isn't, right?
—Joe. L., Fargo

Why would anyone name a kid "Accordingly"? You're right, I don't get it.
—Julius T., Schenectady

I don't get the elephant in the castle part. It just doesn't make sense.
—Rudyard W., Bakersfield

If the Underground were in Boston instead of London, the station could be Roxbury instead of Kingsbury. But it still doesn't make it funny. Don't know, dude.
—Bob M., Boston

She gave birth in the London Underground? She should get her "tubes" tied! Har!
—Sheena P., Helena
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And so it goes. Just when you start to think we have something in common, a British reporter will try to tell a joke. Sadly, this is also only the third day of the year.

Okay, so I made up the questions. It's not illegal. Like the "Guardian" doesn't make most of its stuff up. Right.

More British food. Sort of.

In the past we have talked extensively about Britain's fine gastronomical delights such as Yorkshire Pudding, Cornish Meat Pies, Fish and Chips, and so much more. ("So much more" mainly meaning mushy green peas.) Not quite extensively enough, however: today we marvel at something lovingly called "British Rail Food."

If you are an american reading this, you may jump (naturally) to the same conclusion I did at first. Rail food. Right. You make a box lunch and go sit on a railroad track and eat it. First one squashed by a train loses. A game, not food. Au contraire mon frere.

The British rail network was nationalized (or "nationalised", as the Brits like to hiss) between 1948 and 1994. Some of the sandwiches from that era are still under heating lamps waiting to be sold.

Not true, you say?

Then you would be wrong, for I can readily document the period of nationalization of Britain's railroads.

Oh. The food under the heating lamps, you mean. Yes, perhaps an exaggeration. But legend has it that the test for the sandwiches finally being thrown away was when their corners curled up more than 1 inch. That's a fact. No, wait. I said that was a legend. So NOT fact.

True, however, were the nasty comments and jibes this rather regimented "food" took from Britsh travelers during that period. Or "travellers" as the British like to say, in their uppity consonant-wasting way.

Uncovered at last is a 37-year-old document which listed some rules for the making and displaying of fine rail food during that era.

Issued in 1971 and authored by Director of Rail Catering, one Bill Currie, whose name would be especially apt today, himself now 37 years older than then, or perhaps actually dead and buried, as his food was and should have been, but here contributing only to this post's longest run-on sentence, gave several tips and instructions.

To make the sandwiches attractive (and probably to be able to tell what was inside) at least a third of the filling had to be placed in the center where the diagonal cut would be made and the contents seen by the, ahem, "consumer."  Translated from the American into your standard BritishSpeak, this would be written roughly as follows:

"The average consumer could expect to find ⅔ oz of meat in their sandwich, but if a frankfurter took your fancy you got a whole 1oz! Filling a bread roll with chicken and cress required even more precision, as catering staff were charged with the task of calculating one twelfth of a punnet. Tasty treats like cheese (¾ oz) and gherkin (¼ oz), luncheon meat (⅔ oz) and cress, and sardine (⅔ oz) and tomato (⅓ oz) were whipped up all over the network."

Now, that's precision! Holy Ronald McDonald!

Now, right about now, the three or four Americans reading this far down in the post are probably saying to themselves, "Wha' the feck is 'punnet'? Wha' the feck is a cress?" And rightly so, but not germane to this post, since the Brits already likely know what that stuff is, and probably eat it all the time. Unless a punnet is not edible. Perhaps it is a napkin. Though napkins were unlikely to be served with food back then. I assume. Since a napkin would have cost more than the actual amount of food one received.

And, to be absolutely fair, an American, whose usual evening fare consists of a two-day-old Earl Campbell hot link purchased from an Indian all-night convenience store and washed down with a raspberry slurpy, would hardly be in a position to judge fine cuisine as would your average on-rail British "consumer." One would think.

Former BR caterer Myra Tuddenham, from Newcastle, said the reputation for stale BR sandwiches probably dated back to when they were kept under glass domes on the counters in refreshment rooms until the corners indeed turned up:

"They probably were terrible, particularly when the tomato made the bread go soggy, but people still bought them by the thousand. They are all pre-packed now and standard is much higher these days - I think the food is fabulous now," said Myra.

"Myra retired in 1999 after 28 years on the railways but is still a regular East Coast Main Line traveller. Indeed despite their reputation, BR sandwiches were undoubtedly a big seller among the passengers. Records show that in 1993 Inter-City customers munched their way through no fewer than eight million packs!"

Relax Max reckons Myra's face still displays a rather pronounced tic when she utters the words "Standard is much higher these days - food is fabulous now!" Picture Myra's head jerking sideways and snapping a bit backwards as the word 'fabulous' comes gushing out, and her left eye tic-ing rapidly, uncontrollably, at the very memory of chomping down on one of those wretched 37-year-old pickles. Ah, yes. We all believe you, dear.

Unfortunately, none of our readers are old enough to remember the grand nationalized rail era.  Too bad. Your comments would  be marvelous. 

Happy New Year!

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
And gie's a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
For auld lang syne.

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Here's to you.

Gibraltar in three easy steps

In response to your many cards and letters, I have decided to do the long-neglected post about Gibraltar.

1. What it is.

Gibraltar is a rock.

But Gibraltar is much more than JUST a rock, right? Gibraltar is a symbol of British... what?... Ancient Naval might? Empire? A subtle reminder to Spain to mind their manners or else?

Anyway, whatever it is to the rest of the world, it will always be to Americans a symbol of British Power, primate haven, and, above all, the logo for America's largest life insurance company.

It used to be a trivia test question: "Find Gibraltar on the map. 10 seconds." Now, newly-minted American university graduates would be hard-pressed to find, say, China, on a map, much less Gibraltar. Or Canada, for that matter.

2. Why would you want this rock?

Okay, first - you would want it because it commanded a strategic military asset: entrance (or exit, I suppose) to the Mediterranean Sea. Controlling the Strait (Straits? I can never remember that) of Gibraltar is important. At least it WAS important before the invention of the airplane; people in Italy probably feel less claustrophobic today than they must have felt when Britain ACTUALLY controlled the exit of the Mediterranean.

Now I must stop fumbling for answers and come right out and admit it: I don't know why you would want it. Search me.

3. How did you get this rock?

First and foremost, you must recall that (at the beginnings of your Great Empire, at least) you have always hated Spain. Remember that. France, too. I forgot France. You have always hated Spain AND France. And Germany. But never mind Germany for the time being.

So, you probably wanted Gibraltar because Spain had it. That would have been good enough reason. PLUS it was a good Naval thing to have. So.

The year was 1704. The British and Dutch allied with each other (ostensibly to help the Austrian pretender to the Spanish throne wink wink nudge nudge) against the Spanish and the French. Yay! You got to fight both of them at once.

The British sovereign in 1704 was queen Anne. I can't really remember anything else she did. Or even if she did THIS, actually. But she was on the throne (so to speak) when it happened. You are welcome to tell me in the comments what else happened during her reign, but I probably won't retain the knowledge.

And so, in 1704, you took Gibraltar from Spain (and also got to fight France again) and then, in 1713, Spain ADMITTED you had taken it, and signed it over to you. I am a little hazy about what happened to your Dutch allies and the Austrians. I guess they were just SOL, as we crass Americans might say.

Incidentally, before you get too carried away, we are talking about 2.6 square miles here, K?

And there you have it. Bob's your uncle. If there is more to it than this, please share.

Storyteller Tom on the loose again

I received some books for Christmas, as usual, and the one I am reading first is Malachy McCourt's History of Ireland (told as a series of stories of Irish legends and heroes, along with more modern history, all mixed in with the personal tidbits that make the McCourt boys' tales so interesting to read.

Malachy is Frank's younger brother, as those of you who are familar with Frank's "Angela's Ashes" are well aware. His writing style is every bit as captivating as Frank's, I think, and I already recommend Malachy's book to you even though I have only just started reading it.

One of the very first ancient stories that Malachy recounts in the book is of the legendary giant warrier Fionn mac Cumaill. Here I must tell you that Malachy McCourt relies heavily on the writings of the great Irish storyteller Peig Sayers for these early stories I am reading now. Peig was a fantastic storyteller of the early legends, especially in the oral tradition (as was McCourt's own father, by the way) but she never learned English and so her stories, related by Malachy, are directly from the Irish, of necessity. As a result, this wee American brain is mentally translating Fionn mac Cumaill as "Finn McCool", though McCourt never does. I take this liberty because McCourt mentions the legend of the "construction" of the wondrous "Giant's Causeway" in County Antrim which stretches out into the sea towards Scotland. I have heard of this legend before, but the Irish hero was called Finn McCool in the version I have read. So I make the assumption the names are the same, the latter simply anglicized. Please correct me if you disagree with my assumption.

I realize that Irish history may seem off-topic for this blog, Ireland not being part of the United Kingdom now, but if you know me you will understand my collateral interest and forgive my digression. (McCool happens to be of Northern Ireland, though, at least the Causeway story.)

Anyway, the story goes that the visiting giant from Scotland came upon Fionn mac Cumaill, who had disguised himself as a baby. An 18-foot baby, but a baby nonetheless. And the "baby" bit the giant and caused the Scottish visitor to calculate that if an Irish baby were so fearsome, he had no further desire to meet the adult beings of the Isle, and ran back into the sea, pursued hotly by Fionn mac Cumaill, who was throwing rocks at the giant as the chase progressed. Legend says one of these rocks missed the giant and landed in the sea, becoming the Isle of Man.

I don't know.

But the stories are fascinating.

I am reading about Deirdre now.

"One day when the girl had grown into quite a beauty, her tutor was flaying a calf on the snow-covered ground. Nearby a raven was drinking the blood that had collected in the snow.

"Those three colors remind me of the man I would love, a man I see in my dreams," Dierdre told her nurse. "He has hair as black as the raven, cheeks as red as the calf's blood, and skin as white as the snow."

"There is such a man," said the nurse, and he lives in the household of [king] Connor. He is Naoise, son of Uisneach..."

I love it. I can't wait.