There is nothing - absolutely nothing - as crucial to living among the English as a good sense of humour. Having one means you will cruise through the obstacles and vicissitudes of English life with everyone as a friend and the approval of all you encounter. Not having one, or being perceived not to have one, is social death. In English eyes, half of what is wrong with the rest of the world is that they don’t have a sense of humour, or at least not one the English can understand.
Say what you like, even devoted Anglophobes will have to concede that the English sense of humour is one of their strongest points. Admittedly, TV schedules are clogged with mediocre sitcoms featuring charmless middle-aged couples and centring on lame references to sex and social envy. But British comedy, from the older generation’s Noel Coward, Max Wall, Jimmy Clitheroe and the Goons through Tommy Cooper, the Carry On team, and That Was The Week That Was, to Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, Harry Enfield and the mimed humour of Mr. Bean has produced comedy of ever increasing complexity, surrealistic inventiveness and sophistication.
In everyday life, especially in the workplace, humour is the balm that makes life bearable. No matter how tired, lame, crude the jokes, how trying or wearisome the pranks, it is adviseable to laugh like a drain lest you be marked down as serious or - much worse - taking yourself too seriously. Humour is the enemy of pompousness and the English prize every sign of self-deprecation. When Princess DIana spoke publically of being ‘dim’ at school her popularity became unassailable.
The English love every kind of comedy: the good-natured, infantile smut of Benny Hill, the satirical savagery of Spitting Image, the surrealism of Monty Python and the cerebral, dark nasty humour of the League of Gentlemen.
Much of their humour is elusively subtle. Like the will-o’-the-wisp, it often refuses to be caught and examined. For example:
Two men are reading their newspapers when one says: ‘It says here there’s a fellow in Devon who plays his cello to the seals.’ ‘Oh really’, says the other. ‘Yes’, says the first, ‘Of course, they don’t take a blind bit of notice.’
Since the English rarely say what they mean and tend toward reticence and understatement, their humour is partly based on an exaggeration of this facet of their own character. So, while in conversation they avoid truths which might lead to confrontation, in their humour they mock that avoidance. For example:
At dinner in a great country house one of the guests drinks rather too much wine and, without warning, slumps across the table. The host rings for the butler and says: ‘Smithers, could you please prepare a room. This gentleman has kindly consented to stay the night.’
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A fun series of books. They have them for many different nationalities, and Californians get their own volume.