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.

Enchanted Rock, TX

As I travel further afield in Texas, I realise that Dallas is to Texas as Slough is to England. Enough said.

Today, I headed to Texas Hill Country, to the “Enchanted Rock”. This is about a four-hour drive, but once you get south of the Brazos River, the highways straighten up, and, even though it’s a two-way, two-lane road, you can set the cruise control to 75mph, and sit back while the miles slip away under the wheels. You hardly ever meet any other traffic, and, even when you do, the accepted practice seems to be that the slower vehicle moves halfway onto the shoulder, so that passing is easy. Occasionally, you have to slow down as you pass through a “town”, usually characterised by a gas station, a Dairy Queen and a couple of houses.

I passed a dairy farm (a little unusual in predominantly “cattle country”) with a slogan underneath its name: “Drink more milk – the udder cola”. I also passed ranches raising sheep, goats, llamas and ostriches, as well as the more common Texas Longhorn cattle. I stopped for lunch at the Roadhouse BBQ in Lampasas. Outside they have a huge (about 10ft) barbecue, from which you choose your meat –  brisket, 2-inch thick pork chops, baby-back-ribs, sausage. I chose an inch-thick slice of brisket. You take this inside to add “fixin’s” – potato salad, coleslaw, beans, and sweet iced-tea. The owner told me that the succulence is due to good barbecue sauce, and slooooow cooking – around 18 hours!

Hispanic Temple

And I passed a Hispanic temple. I’m sure there’s nothing strange about Hispanic Jews – I just hadn’t thought about it before.

Enchanted Rock is a 500ft tall dome-shaped granite outcrop, and is quite spectacular. I didn’t arrive there until about 4pm, when it was a little too late to attempt the ascent, but I’d love to go again earlier in the day (I’ve been advised that it’s not wise to attempt this in the middle of summer).

Enchanted Rock

Travelling back through the Hill Country was beautiful. Around there, the trucks all have cattle guards on the front – for good reason, and not just for show. Cattle wander freely across the road, and I’m sure would make quite a mess of a car (I know, I know … the cattle’s perspective may be different). I passed through a town called Llano where I needed to stop for gas. I asked the guy behind the counter: “If you had to get to Dallas from here (which, unfortunately, I do), how would you do it?”. The answer: “Look at a map – don’t know, ain’t never been over that way”. OK, we have a redneck – time to up the ante. “How do you pronounce the name of this town?”. “Lan-oh.”. No more imaginative than I expected, so in for the kill: “Is it the first “ell”, or the second, that’s silent?”.

Cow!

Prestonwood, TX

Now I’m in a quandary.

A work colleague, knowing my penchant for weekend trips, suggested I should go to Prestonwood Baptist Church, especially if there was a baptism. He would say little more than that, other than to add that, since the congregation was about 7,000, it was highly likely that there would be a baptism, whenever I chose to go.

It’s difficult for someone from England (or even New England) to even begin to describe the church. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a website is probably worth ten thousand, so that, if my meagre description and photograph are insufficient, you could look for yourself at http://www.prestonwood.org. I think it’s likely that our largest cathedral would fit several times over inside Prestonwood. The parking lot outside is so huge that it needed a small army of traffic control cops to regulate the flow. It’s more like a religiously themed mall than a church, with bookshops, gift shops, a café and meeting rooms, in addition to the auditorium (with seating for 7,000) in which services are held. I actually had to go to an information desk to ask for directions to the service, since it was by no means obvious amid the milling crowds and signage to the many and various facilities.

Prestonwood Church

There was no altar, but rather a stage, on which were seated a 30-piece orchestra; behind them, a choir of 150; above them, to either side, two giant screens that are more usually seen at large sporting venues – these were fed by what must have been a dozen cameras, controlled from one of two boxes in the centre of the auditorium (the other, I think, controlled the lighting). And in between the two screens was a large glass tank, half full of faintly greenish water – this was used, halfway through the service, for a baptism of the full-immersion variety. A special section was reserved for deaf members of the congregation, and the whole service was signed for their benefit.

The music was entirely modern Christian (marvellously performed), with the words displayed on the screens so that everyone could join in. There was no kneeling, and moments of prayer were signified by an appropriate dimming of the lights. There was no Lord’s Prayer, no “peace”, and no Communion. Being plain Baptists, rather than Southern Baptists, there were no wild displays of ecstasy either – for which I was thankful.

When I got back to the hotel, I called Val, who had just got back from church at Eggesford. Because there was a special event, the congregation was larger than usual – about 10, I think she said.

Now here’s my quandary: I see the church in England slowly withering, with disillusioned youth leaving in droves, but I like the tradition and the reverence of the service, though many find it obscure and uninspiring; I see the unwelcoming pews gradually emptying as their occupants age, and ultimately join a much larger congregation. I also see the churches in Texas, of every conceivable denomination, on every other corner, but still vibrant and packed with people of all ages who look as though they’re happy to be there. So I have to wonder which is better, not for me, but for Christianity. Is it worth sacrificing tradition for the multimedia extravagance, if in doing so the trend can be reversed? Or is there a “happy medium”? Perhaps I’ll try a Lutheran church next week.

Christmas

All the Christmas movies are on TV. And there seem to be more every year. Of course, the older ones tend to be better, maybe because they’re not pure commercialism – although all movies are ultimately made for commercial reasons.

The funny thing is that, even when the movies are shown in the afternoon, there are commercials for “Preparation H”, an ointment for the relief of haemerrhoids. Not entirely appropriate. It makes you yearn for the days when there weren’t medications for haemerrhoids and “feminine itch”, so that it was socially acceptable to just scratch (maybe not entirely true, at least for people of the female persuasion).

I listened to an interesting program on the radio recently. Every year we hear the familiar cry: “Put the Christ back in Christmas”. The caller on the radio, obviously a devout Christian, was proposing a radical alternative: “Take Christ out of Christmas”. I’m sure I can’t reproduce his arguments exactly, but here’s the gist of it. Christmas has always had very little to do with Christ, mostly because he was a baby at the time, and had little to contribute other than looking cute. Easter, of course, is a totally different story, because he’d had time to experience life and all its lessons, and could offer meaningful commentary on the way on which we should live it. But Christmas … well, it has mostly become a commercial tradition (probably based largely on more ancient traditions anyway), from which Christ is slowly being elbowed out. So, rather than wait for the inevitable, why don’t we just rename “Christmas” as “Yuletide” (or whatever), give up the pretence, and concentrate on Easter as a Christian festival.

You’ll know already that I’m not particularly religious, in the accepted sense. I believe in Christian values, but I believe that they’re also Moslem values, and Jewish values, and Hindu values. And I believe in a higher power, with whom I can commune just as well outside a church (although there are times when communities or friends need to share, and church is an excellent place to do it) as in it. And so I can’t say that I oppose this viewpoint. I might even go further and endorse it – after all, we’re way past the point of de-commercialising Christmas.

Air travel

Air travel gets worse, not better. I understand that there’s increasing competition in the marketplace, so that “service” is cut to the bare minimum to keep the profit margin positive. I also understand that there’s constant pressure to keep the airlines safe from terrorism, even though it’s my personal belief that traveling by air has never been safer, and will only cease to be so when we drop our guard – and the terrorists have infinite patience. And I know that it makes economic sense to leave aircraft fuselages unpainted in order to save 100 lbs of weight that would increase fuel costs at a time when oil prices are spiraling out of control.

These things creep up on you unnoticed, until you travel, as I did today, with a couple from the “old school”. They remember days when you got dressed up to fly, when meals were recognizable (and were perhaps even preceded by a printed menu), when “wide-bodied” referred to the aircraft, and not the flight attendants, when “beverages”, alcoholic or otherwise, were free, and when both passengers and flight attendants were civil to each other.

Those days are gone, and the couple looked positively anachronistic – he, unmistakably British, in cord trousers and tweed jacket over a thin woolly jumper with blue-and-white striped shirt and regimental tie, grey and balding, with a frequent and annoying “foreign-office” “har-har-har” laugh; she, a Dallas native, on the obligatory annual trip to see relatives (although sacrificing neither Thanksgiving nor Christmas), in a smart twin-set and red court shoes with gold buckles, and an accent that was a curious attempt at a mixture of wealthy American and British upper class; they, talking, as if on stage, in slightly projected tones, so that everyone could receive the benefit of their insights and exploits, though, traveling in coach, they could clearly not afford to live in the manner to which they would like to become accustomed.

They seemed happy. No doubt they moved in circles that maintained their illusion, and remained largely impervious to the world outside (attempted conversations about contemporary films and music failed dismally). Nobody ever said change was for the better, and, for once, I agree with them.