One thing that blind-sided me for absolutely ages, as a flailing amateur writer, and that seems to be a common blind spot, especially among writers of pompous vampire fiction, is the failure to grasp that stories that are absent humour or bathos never feel entirely genuine. Humour, whether we accept it or not, arises in all facets of our lives, from the prosaic to the undeniably tragic, where it lies in the eye of the beholder. It is admittedly less funny if you are the person who has just walked, face-first into a metal pole, causing a dulled chime to ring out, alerting others to your humiliation.
To ignore something that is so pervasive is to deny characters their humanity. I can think of few contemporary writers who grasp this better than the comedian and film-maker Louis CK. The episode of his show 'Louis' where he accidentally takes a duckling on a tour of US military bases in Afghanistan is absurd, sad and heart-warming television.
I used to sit in a staffroom, alongside people who were treating terminal cancer patients. Among those who were unable to emotionally detach themselves from their work, there was a dark undercurrent of humour. They weren't making fun of their patients. They were laughing at death. You should laugh at death. Catching a reflection of your bared-teeth in the down-swing of his scythe is the best that any of us can hope for. If I were to have fallen similarly unwell, I would have trusted any one of those men and women with my own treatment. It was their privately-voiced humour that enabled them to function competently, professionally and emphatically within that setting.
The recent death of a man who was pummelled by a robot arm on a factory production line is both tragic and horrifying. It is also, by some cognitively dissonant sleight of hand, funny, though the humour arises not from the plight of the victim, but from the absurdity of a mechanical servitor having been insufficiently programmed to distinguish between the bodies of its superior creators and the boxes of food that it was built to handle. In the mind of the machine, both are the same thing.
The last image I downloaded to my meme folder consists of a composite photo – a before and after: On the left, there is a faded sepia portrait of a man in military uniform, his face clouded by a pronounced watermark. The person who posted the image identifies this man as the only picture they have of their late uncle. On the right is a restoration of the photo, undertaken by AI and stable diffusion, which has re-rendered it as a black and white, anime style portrait of the man, still in his uniform, but now sporting a giant pair of fake-looking breasts.
The original photo is of a man who served his country in the armed forces – who may have even died in the service of his country. That part of his life remains impervious to easy humiliation. The humour lies in the limitations of the AI that mapped the faded contours implicit in the photo, but failed to understand the context of the image, and posthumously gifted the man the kind of giant siliconised rack that was once commonly sighted on episodes of 'Baywatch'. Additional layers of humour could develop if, following the extinction of our species, the image is uncovered by alien archaeologists who assume that it is the archetypal form of our species.
In all but the most crude humour, the subject of the joke is seldom the target. If I reflexively laugh at a routine that is politically incorrect, which is currently every joke outside of Hannah Gadsby special, then it is often the absurdity of the attitudes or the situation that is being expressed that is the source of that laughter. A hallmark of the comedian, Stewart Lee, are routines that are subversions of the openly racist humour of the previous century.
I think that writing humour requires empathy. You cannot effectively articulate, in humorous form, the ridiculous nature of someone, real or fictional, unless you can see mirrored in them, your own ridiculous nature.
Now that an agent has come forward and confirmed that blow jobs are in circulation as literary currency (I had always assumed this was the case) I am interested to know how many it would take to sell a novel penned by a white, middle-aged woman, if one is deemed to be insufficient. Does the amount vary between the small and large publishing operations? Does the amount of agents who are willing to provide blow jobs to publishers impact upon the overall market value. As the economies of nations teeter on the brink of balkanising into tiers of bartering and dystopian government-run crypto schemes, I think this represents fertile ground for economists.
When I read “orientate” I reach for my Luger. And sometimes a Luger really is a Luger, as Freud might have said. My father, a Berlin raised psychiatrist with a very good sense of humor, viewed change, societal, language, cultural, as subjects to study rather than rail against. Yet even presumably college educated tv news anchors can no longer pronounce et cetera correctly.
And, to cover their asses, they insert “potentially” whenever possible, as in “potentially it might rain tomorrow.” Fortunately I gave up my Luger and don’t want to die of apoplexy.
Sorry you don’t abide jokes well. Agreed, situational humor is usually superior, but a good joke teller, in my book, is a connoisseur and only tells jokes with a great twist or revelation in the punchline:
Young British lieutenant, newly arrived at a Kashmir hill station, paying his respects to the Colonel: “Sorry to hear you recently buried your wife.” Colonel: “Had to...dead you know.” 60 years after my father told us this joke, my siblings and I still use the punchline to get a laugh from one another.
I think there's different types of humour involved in illness, and sometimes none at all. One is the kind of jovial cheerfulness which many health-care workers use as a way of keeping yours and their spirits up when doing unpleasant or embarrassing tasks. It's not always funny, but I appreciated the effort. Another is black humour, where anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, can also be used in the case of serious or terminal illness but only sparingly and only usually by those closest to the affected person, otherwise it appears inappropriate. I used to love watching half an hour of comedy in the evenings (Peep Show; Motherland; Father Ted) when my husband was very ill as the antidote to the seriousness of the day. There is something faintly (and sometimes explicitly) ridiculous about much of life anyway.
Your beautiful dog - where would we be without them. Animals have been better companions to me than people mostly. And, staying on your subject, made me laugh too. The invitation to write - how powerful that is and got me thinking as sure lots of others who read your piece. Funnily enough it was my darling cat Wonka who got me writing after a long spell of not. He turned into my voice - telling me to get on with, face up to it, stop crying etc - and aside from being a philosopher and psychiatrist all rounded up he was very very funny. It's just a job! he would shout as I crumpled after another horrid agency day out. How I miss him. We used to watch the snooker (world championship) together, him taking up three quarters of the settee and me perched on the small bit left. We both adored Ronnie. I can still feel his thick fur and say all my names for him. In the background Hanif and I'm telling you because it is relevant to your invitation, is Channel 4 and Little Women. The latest remake which haven't seen. But knowing the story so well, and the characters Jo, Meg, Amy, Beth and Laurie and why she didn't love him back the way he loved her. What a story and hanging on those girls. Brilliant invitation Hanif and you are sure to get a good response. Humour - without that, in my darkest darkest times, but then I wouldn't be here writing this - it is the most wonderful thing there is. I love to laugh but never know what it will be to do it - but there will be something. Oh blimey it's the bit in the story where Mr March comes home - and Beth has made it to the chaise longue. The gift of writing Hanif, stories to keep us going. Good to hear from you, and be able to respond too. And I am reading more of late - this will hearten the TV haters BUT Strictly awaits tonight - my new favourites are Bobby and Dianne they just are. Lots of love especially to your hound dog, Maddi in the tiny village in North Yorkshire xx
Character study: My oncologist, Dr. Pearson, was British, a towering, exuberant man whom I imagined shopping in big and tall departments. He wasn’t overweight, but he was a hefty fellow and, as I said, tall. His drab black suit jackets billowed behind him when he barreled into the examination room, reminding me of Count Dracula, “his cloak spread around him like wings.” I couldn’t help but notice his white button-down shirts were often wrinkled and looked like they’d been washed with darker colors. Perhaps such an eminent man didn’t bother with clothing. Yet his incongruously colorful ties and matching pocket kerchiefs suggested otherwise. I recall orange and green polka dots and vivid constellations against a midnight sky. “My wife bought them in China,” he said in response to my positive comment. “Three dollars for a set of twelve!” His delight in his ties and kerchiefs mirrored his joy in many things, including advances in ovarian cancer. He was excited about the findings from recent drug trials that showed extended time before recurrence. Dr Pearson scribbled his statistics so enthusiastically I feared he’d break his pen. “Sixty percent chance of cure,” he cried while scribbling. Cure! A word seldom used in this department.
This is a totally unrelated comment / question - it’s just that Armistice Day brought it to mind. You wrote somewhere Hanif, apologies that I can’t remember where, that when you were young there were lots of afflicted men out and about around London who had been damaged by the war - homeless and with significant mental health issues. It’s an aspect of the aftermath WW2 that I’ve never heard anyone else talk about - although the impact of that horrendous time ought to be obvious to everyone. We seem to have covered up or forgotten all of that in favour of solemn sentimentality. I’d be interested to hear more of those recollections of then against now, if ever you feel like writing about them.
Harish, are you able to get hold of some speech to text software that will allow you to write what is in your head? You will still need to edit of course, but that will enable willing helpers (other than Carlo) to participate.
Loved your piece, Hanif! I totally agree that doctors should ideally have a sense of humour! In fact when I read that, I pictured Robin Williams as Oliver Sacks in “Awakenings” - in a clown costume complete with red plastic ball on his nose!
Even when seriously depressed in my 20s I never lost my sense of humor. Whether this saved me or just made my suicidal ideation a form of gallows humor, I can’t say. I wonder how many suicide notes are funny. Has anybody done a study?
Hi Hanif. Many thanks for the writing exercise, here's my homework.
Russ C
Standing behind Russ, we’d sometimes notice the button on his back and giggle. It was only visible if Russ was wearing a faded red polo shirt that hugged his bulk too tight. “What do you think it is?” I asked Chez once. “A mole? Or a wart? It looks like a button.”
Chez smirked. “Maybe it is a button. A self-destruct button.”
We couldn’t stop seeing it after that. “What are you two buffoons laughing at?” Russ would say, looking over his shoulder from his favourite bar stool. We never told him. The reason we never shared this, and the reason why the button gag never failed to amuse, was the hint of truth in this particular fantasy.
In the workplace we all shared for a while, and in the pub we frequented, Russ was a grouch, a curmudgeon and a pessimist, with a volcanic temper. The wrong thing said or implied, about work, Russ’ science fiction obsessions or, worst of all, his background, could spark a red-faced tirade followed by a night of chain-smoking and binge-drinking. It was as if he really did have a self-destruct button sometimes.
Looking back now, I’m sure it was the impact of these rages on his body, plus the booze and cigarettes, that nearly killed him.
But there was another surprising side to his character: he was good with dogs and small children. Ditching the professional grouch act, he’d crouch down and talk to them in a soft voice, and they’d respond like he was an old friend. “You should think about a career change,” I said, “and get a job with animals or children.”
Russ’ surname was Chen. His dad was a local GP – he’d actually been my doctor for a while when I was a kid. Dr Chen came to England from Hong Kong in the sixties, and it was hard for him in the beginning, according to Russ. When his dad joined the town clinic, patients would often ask to see an ‘English’ doctor, sometimes to his face.
But ‘nice Dr Chen’ soon won people over. He joined the local tennis and rugby clubs – and became a supporter of the town's football and cricket teams. His face began to appear in the town newspaper, thanks to what would now be thought problematic roles in local drama society productions. “It was excruciating,” Russ said, “seeing his grinning face, caked in stage make-up, always with a silly hat on. All part of his plan to fit in, of course.”
Russ made a point of not fitting in. Growing up, he rejected his dad’s suggestions to join afterschool sports and arts clubs. “He wanted me to join the Scouts!” Russ said, guffawing over his pint. “Fortunately, Mum let me get on with my own things.”
The “things” she let him “get on with” were, probably in this order: playing with computers, watching TV, reading comics and eating junk food.
A talent for computing led to an IT career, and a senior job in the IT Support Team at the internet bank where I worked in sales. “No one ever says thank you,” he’d grumble to me at the office coffee pod, after he’d solved another IT conundrum that had baffled his fellow techies, before apologising about the smell. “It’s my feet,” he’d explain.
We bonded over beer and a shared interest in 70s TV – mainly old science fiction shows. I never told Russ I thought they were ‘rubbish’, partly because I didn’t want to inflame his temper, but mainly because they really meant something to him. I’d once invited myself back to his house for a late beer, and I was stunned by what I saw. Every shelf was filled with DVDs, books, comics and old-fashioned video cassettes. There was also a lot of full ashtrays and empty beer cans.
When I cleared out my mum’s place, I found a box of my old comics – I could have sold them, but I felt sorry for Russ and gave them to him instead. He was delighted and I was happy too – I thought I’d done a good deed. Then he told me he’d sold half of the comics because he already had them.
The pressure of work – he was always in demand to resolve some IT crisis, plus loneliness, beer and cigarettes, eventually combined to make Russ very sick. He began to turn grey. Doctors warned him to change his lifestyle – his dad had long since given up telling him to drink less, stop smoking and exercise more. One night in the pub, a mutual friend criticised his chain smoking. “They’ll kill you,” she said.
Russ drained his glass. “Good,” he said.
He disappeared from the bank shortly after that, just before I got a new job at another bank. I left town and didn’t see him for six months, then I bumped into him by chance.
I was back in town to see my dad and taking a short cut through the park when I saw what I thought was Russ’ thinner and more athletic brother. It was a hot day, and his face was pink – partly because of the heat and partly because of the six dogs he was attempting to hold onto, leads straining as he stopped to speak to me.
“I’m an IT consultant now,” he said, “and work when I want to. The rest of the time I’m paid to walk these terrors. Listened to your advice, didn’t I? Stopped smoking and boozing too, can you believe that?”
I was speechless. I couldn’t believe it.
We chatted for a while about old times. Then he said: “Got to go,” and flashed what had once been a rare smile.
He waved over his shoulder and winked as the dogs dragged him towards a duck pond. I noticed he was wearing a tight-fitting gym top, and tried to focus on his back as he walked away.
There was no sign of his ‘button’ now, and I was really glad about that.
One thing that blind-sided me for absolutely ages, as a flailing amateur writer, and that seems to be a common blind spot, especially among writers of pompous vampire fiction, is the failure to grasp that stories that are absent humour or bathos never feel entirely genuine. Humour, whether we accept it or not, arises in all facets of our lives, from the prosaic to the undeniably tragic, where it lies in the eye of the beholder. It is admittedly less funny if you are the person who has just walked, face-first into a metal pole, causing a dulled chime to ring out, alerting others to your humiliation.
To ignore something that is so pervasive is to deny characters their humanity. I can think of few contemporary writers who grasp this better than the comedian and film-maker Louis CK. The episode of his show 'Louis' where he accidentally takes a duckling on a tour of US military bases in Afghanistan is absurd, sad and heart-warming television.
I used to sit in a staffroom, alongside people who were treating terminal cancer patients. Among those who were unable to emotionally detach themselves from their work, there was a dark undercurrent of humour. They weren't making fun of their patients. They were laughing at death. You should laugh at death. Catching a reflection of your bared-teeth in the down-swing of his scythe is the best that any of us can hope for. If I were to have fallen similarly unwell, I would have trusted any one of those men and women with my own treatment. It was their privately-voiced humour that enabled them to function competently, professionally and emphatically within that setting.
The recent death of a man who was pummelled by a robot arm on a factory production line is both tragic and horrifying. It is also, by some cognitively dissonant sleight of hand, funny, though the humour arises not from the plight of the victim, but from the absurdity of a mechanical servitor having been insufficiently programmed to distinguish between the bodies of its superior creators and the boxes of food that it was built to handle. In the mind of the machine, both are the same thing.
The last image I downloaded to my meme folder consists of a composite photo – a before and after: On the left, there is a faded sepia portrait of a man in military uniform, his face clouded by a pronounced watermark. The person who posted the image identifies this man as the only picture they have of their late uncle. On the right is a restoration of the photo, undertaken by AI and stable diffusion, which has re-rendered it as a black and white, anime style portrait of the man, still in his uniform, but now sporting a giant pair of fake-looking breasts.
The original photo is of a man who served his country in the armed forces – who may have even died in the service of his country. That part of his life remains impervious to easy humiliation. The humour lies in the limitations of the AI that mapped the faded contours implicit in the photo, but failed to understand the context of the image, and posthumously gifted the man the kind of giant siliconised rack that was once commonly sighted on episodes of 'Baywatch'. Additional layers of humour could develop if, following the extinction of our species, the image is uncovered by alien archaeologists who assume that it is the archetypal form of our species.
In all but the most crude humour, the subject of the joke is seldom the target. If I reflexively laugh at a routine that is politically incorrect, which is currently every joke outside of Hannah Gadsby special, then it is often the absurdity of the attitudes or the situation that is being expressed that is the source of that laughter. A hallmark of the comedian, Stewart Lee, are routines that are subversions of the openly racist humour of the previous century.
I think that writing humour requires empathy. You cannot effectively articulate, in humorous form, the ridiculous nature of someone, real or fictional, unless you can see mirrored in them, your own ridiculous nature.
Now that an agent has come forward and confirmed that blow jobs are in circulation as literary currency (I had always assumed this was the case) I am interested to know how many it would take to sell a novel penned by a white, middle-aged woman, if one is deemed to be insufficient. Does the amount vary between the small and large publishing operations? Does the amount of agents who are willing to provide blow jobs to publishers impact upon the overall market value. As the economies of nations teeter on the brink of balkanising into tiers of bartering and dystopian government-run crypto schemes, I think this represents fertile ground for economists.
Ha, I chortled. 😬
When I read “orientate” I reach for my Luger. And sometimes a Luger really is a Luger, as Freud might have said. My father, a Berlin raised psychiatrist with a very good sense of humor, viewed change, societal, language, cultural, as subjects to study rather than rail against. Yet even presumably college educated tv news anchors can no longer pronounce et cetera correctly.
And, to cover their asses, they insert “potentially” whenever possible, as in “potentially it might rain tomorrow.” Fortunately I gave up my Luger and don’t want to die of apoplexy.
Sorry you don’t abide jokes well. Agreed, situational humor is usually superior, but a good joke teller, in my book, is a connoisseur and only tells jokes with a great twist or revelation in the punchline:
Young British lieutenant, newly arrived at a Kashmir hill station, paying his respects to the Colonel: “Sorry to hear you recently buried your wife.” Colonel: “Had to...dead you know.” 60 years after my father told us this joke, my siblings and I still use the punchline to get a laugh from one another.
Loved this, especially about wit and comedy and jokes being “cumbersome.” Excellent.
Two fishing songs
Snagged On My Fishhook
CD Balancing the Weight of Life
https://youtu.be/PxKMuQHcY3Q
I am a bold brave fisherman
I ply the briny spray
To fill my hold with silver
And my obligations pay
One day I hooked an item
From the bottom of the sea
In my mind it will remain forever
Burned indelibly
You could have knocked me over
With a tiny two inch snook
Something not of Neptune's realm
I'd snagged on my fishhook
The strangest haul I ever had
Did give me quite a thrill
Cause it was seized from my possession
By a bomb squad from McDill
Weigh hey up she rises
Mate what can that be?
Something long with funny fins
Rising off the lee
Weigh hey up she rises
Mate do take a look
It's a blessed guided missile
And it's snagged on my fishhook
It happened on the first day out
I stayed out nine days more
I had to make expenses 'for I
Ever sailed for shore
Then I found out how my fate was bouyed
By angels circling nigh
The damned thing was corroded
Could have blown us all sky high
Weigh hey up she rises
Mate what can that be?
Something long with funny fins
Rising off the lee
Weigh hey up she rises
Mate do take a look
It's a blessed guided missile
And it's snagged on my fishhook
Unidentified Flying Angel
https://youtu.be/lxe0xiOhNdQ?si=HLv3WpV847FaIH69
CD Seasons of Life
A little bit tight on a Saturday night
I was chasing my thoughts with a beer
When lights began flashing bells began ringing
And suddenly you appeared
I put my eyeballs back in my head
Picked up my jaw off the floor
I started to say you looked lovely
But I couldn't say a word more
Unidentified flying angel
I hope you return someday
Were you in a hurry or was I too slow
Why did you rocket away?
Unidentified flying angel
Won't you come back to stay
Cause I'm lost in your spell
Unidentified flying angel
Then I signalled you for a quick rendezvous
I was hoping for a reply
Then I spilled my drink and I saw you wink
And you were gone in the blink of an eye
Unidentified flying angel
I hope you return someday
Were you in a hurry or was I too slow
Why did you rocket away?
Unidentified flying angel
Won't you come back to stay
Cause I'm lost in your spell
Unidentified flying angel
A vision so beautiful
A dreamer's dream come true
You must have planted something
Inside my head
Cause all I can think of is you
And I've never seen an angel so fine
In all of my born days
You've left me a memory I'll never forget
But you've taken my heart away
Unidentified flying angel
I hope you return someday
Were you in a hurry or was I too slow
Why did you rocket away?
Unidentified flying angel
Won't you come back to stay
Cause I'm lost in your spell
Unidentified flying angel
I think there's different types of humour involved in illness, and sometimes none at all. One is the kind of jovial cheerfulness which many health-care workers use as a way of keeping yours and their spirits up when doing unpleasant or embarrassing tasks. It's not always funny, but I appreciated the effort. Another is black humour, where anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, can also be used in the case of serious or terminal illness but only sparingly and only usually by those closest to the affected person, otherwise it appears inappropriate. I used to love watching half an hour of comedy in the evenings (Peep Show; Motherland; Father Ted) when my husband was very ill as the antidote to the seriousness of the day. There is something faintly (and sometimes explicitly) ridiculous about much of life anyway.
For those of us who didn't already know, Primo Levi taught us that if perfect happiness isn't possible neither is perfect misery.
Your beautiful dog - where would we be without them. Animals have been better companions to me than people mostly. And, staying on your subject, made me laugh too. The invitation to write - how powerful that is and got me thinking as sure lots of others who read your piece. Funnily enough it was my darling cat Wonka who got me writing after a long spell of not. He turned into my voice - telling me to get on with, face up to it, stop crying etc - and aside from being a philosopher and psychiatrist all rounded up he was very very funny. It's just a job! he would shout as I crumpled after another horrid agency day out. How I miss him. We used to watch the snooker (world championship) together, him taking up three quarters of the settee and me perched on the small bit left. We both adored Ronnie. I can still feel his thick fur and say all my names for him. In the background Hanif and I'm telling you because it is relevant to your invitation, is Channel 4 and Little Women. The latest remake which haven't seen. But knowing the story so well, and the characters Jo, Meg, Amy, Beth and Laurie and why she didn't love him back the way he loved her. What a story and hanging on those girls. Brilliant invitation Hanif and you are sure to get a good response. Humour - without that, in my darkest darkest times, but then I wouldn't be here writing this - it is the most wonderful thing there is. I love to laugh but never know what it will be to do it - but there will be something. Oh blimey it's the bit in the story where Mr March comes home - and Beth has made it to the chaise longue. The gift of writing Hanif, stories to keep us going. Good to hear from you, and be able to respond too. And I am reading more of late - this will hearten the TV haters BUT Strictly awaits tonight - my new favourites are Bobby and Dianne they just are. Lots of love especially to your hound dog, Maddi in the tiny village in North Yorkshire xx
Character study: My oncologist, Dr. Pearson, was British, a towering, exuberant man whom I imagined shopping in big and tall departments. He wasn’t overweight, but he was a hefty fellow and, as I said, tall. His drab black suit jackets billowed behind him when he barreled into the examination room, reminding me of Count Dracula, “his cloak spread around him like wings.” I couldn’t help but notice his white button-down shirts were often wrinkled and looked like they’d been washed with darker colors. Perhaps such an eminent man didn’t bother with clothing. Yet his incongruously colorful ties and matching pocket kerchiefs suggested otherwise. I recall orange and green polka dots and vivid constellations against a midnight sky. “My wife bought them in China,” he said in response to my positive comment. “Three dollars for a set of twelve!” His delight in his ties and kerchiefs mirrored his joy in many things, including advances in ovarian cancer. He was excited about the findings from recent drug trials that showed extended time before recurrence. Dr Pearson scribbled his statistics so enthusiastically I feared he’d break his pen. “Sixty percent chance of cure,” he cried while scribbling. Cure! A word seldom used in this department.
Is it okay that the irony of wanting to strangle someone, when you can’t use your arms , caused me to laugh out loud.
This is a totally unrelated comment / question - it’s just that Armistice Day brought it to mind. You wrote somewhere Hanif, apologies that I can’t remember where, that when you were young there were lots of afflicted men out and about around London who had been damaged by the war - homeless and with significant mental health issues. It’s an aspect of the aftermath WW2 that I’ve never heard anyone else talk about - although the impact of that horrendous time ought to be obvious to everyone. We seem to have covered up or forgotten all of that in favour of solemn sentimentality. I’d be interested to hear more of those recollections of then against now, if ever you feel like writing about them.
Harish, are you able to get hold of some speech to text software that will allow you to write what is in your head? You will still need to edit of course, but that will enable willing helpers (other than Carlo) to participate.
Loved your piece, Hanif! I totally agree that doctors should ideally have a sense of humour! In fact when I read that, I pictured Robin Williams as Oliver Sacks in “Awakenings” - in a clown costume complete with red plastic ball on his nose!
Even when seriously depressed in my 20s I never lost my sense of humor. Whether this saved me or just made my suicidal ideation a form of gallows humor, I can’t say. I wonder how many suicide notes are funny. Has anybody done a study?
Hi Hanif. Many thanks for the writing exercise, here's my homework.
Russ C
Standing behind Russ, we’d sometimes notice the button on his back and giggle. It was only visible if Russ was wearing a faded red polo shirt that hugged his bulk too tight. “What do you think it is?” I asked Chez once. “A mole? Or a wart? It looks like a button.”
Chez smirked. “Maybe it is a button. A self-destruct button.”
We couldn’t stop seeing it after that. “What are you two buffoons laughing at?” Russ would say, looking over his shoulder from his favourite bar stool. We never told him. The reason we never shared this, and the reason why the button gag never failed to amuse, was the hint of truth in this particular fantasy.
In the workplace we all shared for a while, and in the pub we frequented, Russ was a grouch, a curmudgeon and a pessimist, with a volcanic temper. The wrong thing said or implied, about work, Russ’ science fiction obsessions or, worst of all, his background, could spark a red-faced tirade followed by a night of chain-smoking and binge-drinking. It was as if he really did have a self-destruct button sometimes.
Looking back now, I’m sure it was the impact of these rages on his body, plus the booze and cigarettes, that nearly killed him.
But there was another surprising side to his character: he was good with dogs and small children. Ditching the professional grouch act, he’d crouch down and talk to them in a soft voice, and they’d respond like he was an old friend. “You should think about a career change,” I said, “and get a job with animals or children.”
Russ’ surname was Chen. His dad was a local GP – he’d actually been my doctor for a while when I was a kid. Dr Chen came to England from Hong Kong in the sixties, and it was hard for him in the beginning, according to Russ. When his dad joined the town clinic, patients would often ask to see an ‘English’ doctor, sometimes to his face.
But ‘nice Dr Chen’ soon won people over. He joined the local tennis and rugby clubs – and became a supporter of the town's football and cricket teams. His face began to appear in the town newspaper, thanks to what would now be thought problematic roles in local drama society productions. “It was excruciating,” Russ said, “seeing his grinning face, caked in stage make-up, always with a silly hat on. All part of his plan to fit in, of course.”
Russ made a point of not fitting in. Growing up, he rejected his dad’s suggestions to join afterschool sports and arts clubs. “He wanted me to join the Scouts!” Russ said, guffawing over his pint. “Fortunately, Mum let me get on with my own things.”
The “things” she let him “get on with” were, probably in this order: playing with computers, watching TV, reading comics and eating junk food.
A talent for computing led to an IT career, and a senior job in the IT Support Team at the internet bank where I worked in sales. “No one ever says thank you,” he’d grumble to me at the office coffee pod, after he’d solved another IT conundrum that had baffled his fellow techies, before apologising about the smell. “It’s my feet,” he’d explain.
We bonded over beer and a shared interest in 70s TV – mainly old science fiction shows. I never told Russ I thought they were ‘rubbish’, partly because I didn’t want to inflame his temper, but mainly because they really meant something to him. I’d once invited myself back to his house for a late beer, and I was stunned by what I saw. Every shelf was filled with DVDs, books, comics and old-fashioned video cassettes. There was also a lot of full ashtrays and empty beer cans.
When I cleared out my mum’s place, I found a box of my old comics – I could have sold them, but I felt sorry for Russ and gave them to him instead. He was delighted and I was happy too – I thought I’d done a good deed. Then he told me he’d sold half of the comics because he already had them.
The pressure of work – he was always in demand to resolve some IT crisis, plus loneliness, beer and cigarettes, eventually combined to make Russ very sick. He began to turn grey. Doctors warned him to change his lifestyle – his dad had long since given up telling him to drink less, stop smoking and exercise more. One night in the pub, a mutual friend criticised his chain smoking. “They’ll kill you,” she said.
Russ drained his glass. “Good,” he said.
He disappeared from the bank shortly after that, just before I got a new job at another bank. I left town and didn’t see him for six months, then I bumped into him by chance.
I was back in town to see my dad and taking a short cut through the park when I saw what I thought was Russ’ thinner and more athletic brother. It was a hot day, and his face was pink – partly because of the heat and partly because of the six dogs he was attempting to hold onto, leads straining as he stopped to speak to me.
“I’m an IT consultant now,” he said, “and work when I want to. The rest of the time I’m paid to walk these terrors. Listened to your advice, didn’t I? Stopped smoking and boozing too, can you believe that?”
I was speechless. I couldn’t believe it.
We chatted for a while about old times. Then he said: “Got to go,” and flashed what had once been a rare smile.
He waved over his shoulder and winked as the dogs dragged him towards a duck pond. I noticed he was wearing a tight-fitting gym top, and tried to focus on his back as he walked away.
There was no sign of his ‘button’ now, and I was really glad about that.
Please add Jane Austen to your list of great writers who are essentially comic.
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