THE WAY THINGS ARE

We all know a gasbag, a hardwall or a sponge head. In a shop, an elderly woman asked help to read a label. ‘You speak Greek, you must be here a long time.’ I said yes, adding a Cypriot expression that usually raises a smile – from the time of Noah. No smile, instead a third degree. Where was I from, was I married, Greek or foreign, did I have children/grandchildren.

Then the big question – did I convert to Orthodoxy? I said I was already baptised a Christian, no longer practicing but respectful of other beliefs, and attended services with my Orthodox family on special occasions. I tried to extricate myself but she was on a mission. ‘You have to convert. Your family is not united, you’ll cause a schism. Catholic baptism doesn’t count, our faith is the true one.’

I was taught manners show good breeding, I can suffer fools up to a point, but tolerant politeness can be interpreted as weakness by aggressive people. I told her my Catholicism instructed me only Roman Catholics go to heaven, the rest go to Limbo, Purgatory or Hell.

I felt childhood sympathy for people destined to suffer that eternity because they didn’t have the true faith. ‘But,’ I quoted, ‘In my father’s house there are many mansions.’ Which I took to mean heaven was open to everyone.

Gasbag speaks for itself. Hardwalls defy logical debate, they are always rigidly right. Spongehead soaks up what you say, is open up a discussion, to see an overall picture. People with extreme beliefs aligned to political or social media group-think to which they feel they righteously belong, may profess vehemently to believe manufactured lies that reinforce their personal beliefs.

Self-awareness hopefully comes with maturity for most. We recognise our own faults and weaknesses and allow for the same in others. Women/racial/gender groups have fought hard to attain rights that ignorant, hardwall types refute. Our differences make us interesting not alien to open minds.

Comedy writers and performers now have to be very careful about possible insults in their material. I loved Fawlty Towers, unthinking of how offensive the treatment of Manuel the Spanish waiter was to the real-life workers subjected to humiliation. Back then, for me, unawareness saw humour, not prejudice, we are now completely aware.

Recently, Sacha Baron Cohen, always original if irreverent and crude, raised the ire of Asians with Ali G: Who Iz I? Aaron Teo said in last Sunday’s Mail that Cohen’s defenders say the joke was never targeted at the people it appears to mock, rather, I think, like Fawlty Towers.

The difference is, today its racial element has caused wide discussion and argument. As a friend said, ‘Blacks, Asians, mixed race, they all want a piece of him to chew on, lighten up.’

We Irish are used to being the butt of jokes, we’ve learned to laugh at ourselves. If you can’t take a joke at your own expense, don’t make one at somebody else’s. Anyone remember Piers Morgan asking Cypriot Stavros Flatley’s son was if he worried he’d end up looking like his (plump) dad. The lad’s smart ‘I am not obliged to comment on that.’ floored him. Stav and Son wowed the audience. Given his due, snarky Morgan has not spared Israeli representatives on his show by asking persistent, uncomfortable questions on Gaza.

The F word still stands in public performance and fart jokes abound in substandard movies. If only extreme and racist minds could fart away all the gasbag fog that clogs their way of thinking, the world would be a kinder place. ‘It isn’t the things themselves that disturb people, but the judgments that they form about them,’ Epictetus said.