Unfunny Me?

She’s an intelligent kind of girl. The sort of girl that once you get to know her comes across as being rather gentle and sweet. Yes, she can be a little quiet at times, but then that’s not a bad thing really.

She does have one trait, though, which does stand out from her other qualities. She’s not the kind of girl which is easily impressed. The fact is, I think it takes a lot to impress her; and even if she is impressed, she tries not to show it.

Due to this ability of not being easily impressed she is the perfect sounding board for trying out new jokes and quips on. If you manage to get a slightly raised eye brow from her, I know I may be onto a winner.

Also, she is what you might call a captive audience. Down on the Barbican she’s paid to stand behind that bar. I on the other hand have to pay for the pleasure. Although, the pleasure in the end is all mine; you just can’t go wrong with excellent local real ale.

The problem that I have though started last week. I was stood in this welcoming hostelry, slurping on my favourite beer. She was stood on at the other end of the bar with her glasses on; shuffling through her paper work.

So I slid myself down the bar, with a great big grin on my face, and said: ‘did you know I was doing some spring cleaning yesterday? I was doing it to the sounds of Bruce Springcleansteen!’

At this point she looked up over the top of her glasses and said: ‘Nick, what is that meant to be, some kind of joke?’ Her eye brow did not even move as she said this.

It was obvious that she was not impressed by this witticism of mine, even though she does have a fairly healthy sense of humour. I retired quickly to the other end of the bar, as a tumbleweed and cold wind blew from one end of the pub, out the door; and then up Southside Street.

This new joke of mine had failed horribly. It was unusable. It was, most possibly, unpublishable. Worst of all it was not funny. You can dear reader only guess at how crushed my poor ego was!

In the end I would not have minded if that had only been my only recent failure. There had been another; and if I put both of these together there was only one conclusion I could come to.

The other incident had happened at Plymouth Arts Centre, during a meeting of the Language Club. A club which normally features a host of brilliantly talented poets and writers reading their work; and being that it is an open mic format I thought I would give it ago.

I’ll admit that on this evening I was not nervous; only I had decided to read some of my older more witty surreal poetry. Most of this stuff was ten year old. I thought it could have done with a dusting off.

Now there’s me stood in front of the audience. I’ve got a stack of paper in my hand; and I let rip with what I thought was the most profound and hilarious poem I had ever written. I declaimed: ‘Big green tree. Large Metal axe. No tree.’

This was met with silence. Now, I know the great and good of the Language Club have a great sense of humour. So this example of unfunny can only sit at the door of one person; and that is me. Once more tumbleweed rolls; and a cold wind blows.

Therefore, ladies and gentleman of the jury, between the example of ‘Bruce Springcleansteen,’ and ‘Big green tree, Large Metal axe. No tree,’ I can only come to the conclusion that my comic prowess has gone missing. What is a writer to do?

It is almost a if I have now turned towards the more tragic mode. Alas the comic muse has left me. I think there might not be a cure. There will be no comic panel show appearances for me. My career is over before it even began.

Dam, I think that’s gone a little too far don’t you! It might be the case that I might have to work on some better material. After all, a writer should never give up. A writer should just work on new material.

Then, with new material, just try it out on the those who are not easily impressed, to see if it scores a raised eye brow. At that point I may well have something worth laughing at.