Jokes

A couple of jokes were dredged up from the past this week, and, while it might have been better had they stayed there, they serve to remind me that my sense of humour has been off the beaten track for as long as I can remember. Neither of them are particularly “off-colour” or offensive, but the choice to continue reading is yours – my responsibility ends here!

I don’t remember where I heard this first one, but I find it compelling for several reasons: firstly, it’s not a “quickie” – one-liners are fine in context, but some situations just cry out for something more subtle, more involved; secondly, it’s a long joke, but not one of those “shaggy dog” stories with a horribly lame ending, so that there is scope for the teller to be creative; and finally, because (I think) the listener (or reader) is engaged throughout, wondering how the twin plot lines will ultimately come together.

It was a glorious summer day, of the kind peculiar to England. A car, its driver heady with the relief of an early end to a difficult week, swept through the countryside over roads dappled by the mid-afternoon sun. Suddenly the car swerved to a halt, and slowly reversed to the end of a driveway where a sign proudly proclaimed “VASELINE POWERED CAR FOR SALE” in broadly scrawled red paint. The car pulled into the driveway, and followed its gravelled track until it came to a halt outside a modest house flanked by a large wooden barn, with double doors that spanned its width.

The driver climbed out. He was young and well-dressed, but not extravagantly so. As he walked towards the house, the front door opened, and its elderly occupant walked towards him, hand outstretched. As they greeted each other, the driver asked about the car for sale.

“Oh yes,” said the old man. “It’s over here.”

And he pointed towards the barn as he led the way and swung back the creaking doors. He walked silently over to a corner of the barn, and with a flourish that left him temporarily shrouded in a cloud of dust, he pulled aside a large cotton sheet, exposing an immaculate, though obviously old, shiny green (British Racing Green, of course) sports car.

The driver stared at it speechlessly while its owner smiled triumphantly. When the dust had settled, the driver walked slowly towards the car, admiring its sleek lines, and running a single finger along its wing, as if in disbelief.

“I’ve looked after it,” explained the old man, “although I don’t find it so comfortable these days. I’d like it to go to someone who would appreciate it, and enjoy owning it as much as I have. Why don’t you take it for a spin?”

The younger man met his elder’s gaze. “I’d love to!” he murmured.

As he climbed into the driver’s seat, the owner rattled off instructions enthusiastically: “You’ll find the brakes pull a little to the right … I’ve been meaning to get it fixed, but it’s nothing really. Ease up on the accelerator, though – you’ll find the pick-up on these Vaseline cars much more powerful than you’re used to. Oh, and don’t go too far – it’s a little low on Vaseline.”

“Are you sure it runs on Vaseline – not petrol? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

The old man unscrewed the fuel cap, stuck in his hand, pulled it out and thrust it towards the younger man’s face. Clearly Vaseline.

The young man was cautious as he pulled away from the house and followed the driveway back to the road. As soon as he was on solid road, his confidence in the car’s handling increased, and he was amazed at its abilities. So much so that he lost track of time as the car smoothly hugged every twist and turn, and instantly responded to his every touch. Inevitably, of course, the car became sluggish, sputtered, and came to a stop as he pulled over to the side of the road. The fuel gauge read “Empty”.

In a typical suburban house in a typical suburban neighbourhood a typical suburban family settled down for their evening meal. The meal was not typically suburban: smoked trout with lemon and wholemeal bread, Moroccan lamb tagine with apricots, and French apple tart with fresh cream. The father, mother and two daughters ate until they were replete, and there were still dishes full of food left on the table. So far, so good. But this is where the argument starts, and it’s the same every evening. The younger daughter doesn’t want to do the washing-up because she has homework; the older daughter did it last night, so it’s not her turn; the mother did the cooking, and so shouldn’t have to wash up as well; and the father’s been at work all day. In the end, the father calls for an end to the argument, and, waving his arms furiously, says: “Alright! We’ll leave the washing-up for now. We’ll all go through to the lounge, sit down and watch TV. And the first one to speak does the washing-up!”

Silently, they file through to the lounge, settle back in their usual places and stare blankly at the television.

Not much time passes before there is a knock at the front door. The husband gets up from his chair and answers it. It’s the young man, asking if he can use the phone. The husband beckons him in, and returns to the lounge. As they pass through the dining room, the young man can’t help noticing the delicious repast, and respectfully asks the father if he could have some, to save it going to waste. The young man takes the silent response as affirmation, and fills a plate. At the same time, he helps himself to a beer that he finds in the fridge. After joining the family in the lounge and finishing his food, his attention is drawn to the older daughter, an extraordinarily attractive young lady who happily returns his smile. Emboldened by the beer, he turns to the father: “Your daughter is quite stunning – I wonder if you’d mind if I had sex with her?” Once again, he takes silence as acceptance, and proceeds upstairs with the daughter.

As they come back down, he helps himself to another beer, and, on finishing it, notices, as if for the first time, the younger daughter. She, too, is amazingly beautiful. “I wonder if you’d mind if I had sex with your younger daughter?” Silence again, and he takes the younger daughter upstairs.

After another beer, the mother, despite her years, is looking attractive. “I know this may seem forward of me, but I wonder if you’d mind if I had sex with your wife?” Still silence; still perceived as compliance.

After coming downstairs and yet another beer, the young man slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“I almost forgot why I came here! Do you have any Vaseline?”

“Alright, alright!” shouts the father. “I’ll do the washing-up.”

The second joke harks back to my days as a (reluctant) folk-singer. I don’t think I ever had the nerve to perform alone, but I did perform on more than one occasion. On one of those occasions, my partner-in-crime broke a guitar string in the middle of the set. For a seasoned performer, this is an opportunity for a lively exchange with the audience; for me, it was terrifying – he was occupied re-stringing, and I had to do something. So I told a joke that I think I first heard told by Ronnie Corbett. At the end of the joke, my compatriot was re-strung, the audience laughed and applauded, and I was left with a natural high that I’ll never forget – I imagine it’s why performers perform, even though they find each performance nerve-wracking.

I used to commute from a town near Guildford to London everyday to get to work in the West End. It’s crazy that people do this – spend an hour and a half at either end of the day just to get to and from work – but somehow you get used to it, and you don’t realize how crazy it is until you stop doing it.

In those days, there were two different kinds of train carriages: those with corridors, and those without. The corridor carriages  tended to be used on longer routes, and afforded the luxury of being able to leave your compartment to walk up and down, and, more importantly, to visit the bathroom  (“Passengers will please refrain from pissing while the train is in the station; if the train can wait then so can you,” was a popular schoolboy refrain, and needs to be sung liltingly for maximum effect); non-corridor carriages offered neither opportunity. Of course, these compartments would have a door at both sides, to enable passengers to get on and off regardless of which side of the platform the train pulled in at. And the train would pull in at the same place every day, and seasoned travellers knew exactly where to stand to be closest to the door of “their” carriage. As they climbed aboard, brief cases, brollies and bowler hats would be carefully placed on the overhead rack, while the owner settled back into “his” seat, and possibly pretend to read the evening newspaper before the motion of the train and the day’s fatigue would take hold and he would nod off, maintaining an upright position.

If you’ve ever done this regularly, you’ll know that the body develops a “sixth sense”, such that you always wake up just before your station. I don’t ever remember over-sleeping and waking up on an empty train at the end of the line.

On one occasion, there must have been repairs on the line just before Guildford. As the train shuddered to a halt outside the station, the man in the pin-striped suit opposite was suddenly alert.  In one flowing movement, he stood, collected his belongings from the rack, opened the door, and stepped out. His exit was not elegant, of course, since there was no platform, and he plunged (not too far) to the track below. After a moment, his brief case and brolly were tossed back into to carriage, and he climbed back in. Somewhat sheepishly, he brushed himself down, announcing: “I’m terribly sorry – you must think I’m an awful fool.” Then he stepped out the other side.