Fun and names

THE WAY THINGS ARE

By Colette NiReamonn Ioannidou

Did you hear the one about the IRA man who, when told by his superiors to sabotage a British vehicle by ‘Blowing up the exhaust!’, came back with a dirty mouth. The Irish are used to lame jokes about their stupidity and drunkenness, and over long years we’ve learned to laugh at stereotypes of ourselves.

Easter brings to mind a friend in Dublin who had breast cancer, fought it and carried on. She was in the city buying gifts for her grandchildren, her daughter was three months pregnant with her third, when she collapsed. She had spoken to me by phone of dizziness, I advised her to talk to her doctors at the private hospital she had attended. The words she had just spoken to her shocked and shattered husband were the last she would speak. The cancer had spread to her brain, she went into a coma from which she would never revive. She had, unbelievably, been given no warning by her med team of the possibility that her dizziness might be metastasis.

Her husband, a close friend and ten years her senior, had told me she was very concerned about losing her hair after therapy. They had searched for a really good, natural-looking wig to replace her mass of lovely auburn hair. “I think she’s worried more about that than whether to have an implant or a special bra.” The cancer scar was hidden.

When Chris Rock made the GI Jane joke about Jada Pinkett Smith would he have paused ahead of delivering that unrehearsed, impulsive jibe if her hair loss were from cancer therapy? It’s not easy being a funny man or woman now with the weight of political correctness hovering over what they say.

Fawlty Towers fun would be questionable with hapless Manuel being the butt of degrading behaviour by his boss, played John Cleese. Back when it was created, it used then acceptable stereotyping of the Irish and Germans as well as others and I laughed as loudly as anybody; I loved the series. The fact that our fun was at the expense of another person or race, hadn’t been pointed out to us, and my giggles were not steeped in celebration of racism.

Now we are aware of offence, but we also have to find some leeway for those who earn a living making fun of everybody else. Stand-up comedy is the toughest kind and what goes down in clubs or venues with audiences who know what to expect from the performer they have chosen to come and watch, is free choice. There are brilliantly funny folk who can make you laugh without the constant punctuation of the ‘f’ word or slimy remarks.

The British radio comedy Sorry, I Haven’t a Clue is marvellous because it works on genuine wit and quick thinking; the teams involved as smart as they come. Yet, that same BBC comedy slot has seen questionable jokes in other, otherwise good shows about the evacuation of Afghanistan, mainly at the expense of the Taliban, and the war between Ukraine and Russia. I can’t laugh at that kind of joke when I know the not-at-all-funny, real suffering behind the general themes.

Rock’s joke was live-personal and there’s the difference: a woman’s hair loss giving a vacuous laugh to millions of viewers watching the show… at her expense. She was there, cameras homing in on her reaction. Her husband was to win one of Hollywood’s highest accolades, yet the memory of that triumph will always be marred for that family by her obvious discomfort.

Will Smith shouldn’t have used violence: old sayings – two wrongs don’t make a right and act in haste, repent at leisure. Rock became the victim in some eyes, no one spoke of disciplining him or expelling him from the Academy, he’s a comic, he’s allowed. Should he be? What would have been his reaction if someone he loved had been exposed to millions of viewers seeing that stinging arrow hit home?

Pinkett Smith chose to show her good legs to hopefully distract from her hair loss. That brought to mind another Irish friend who took on breast cancer with the determination of a Kung Fu fighter intent on a win. The day after her operation she poo-pooed sympathy and told me, ‘I’ve got great legs; I’m going to shorten my skirts.’ That takes strength as did an actress admitting to hair loss. She could have worn a wig. Would Rock have found a jibe in that? If she had walked onstage and slapped Rock’s face what would the gossip tumult that followed be?

Might most have said, ‘Go girl! Tell these funny guys people get hurt by their jokes.’ Or would they still have seen Rock as the one who needed defending?