My father’s favourite joke was simple and of the ‘hit and run’ variety. If, whilst driving, he spotted someone on the roof of a house or building, he would pull the car to the side of the road, wind down the window, stick out his head and yell: ‘Don’t jump, mate!’ Before the startled stranger had a chance to gather his wits and respond, my father would vigorously wind the window back up and drive off at the greatest pace a Nissan E-20 minivan could manage. What victims of this joke thought as they watched a small bus with seven people inside lurch back into the traffic barely stands thinking about. I couldn’t tell you whether these attempts at ‘drive by’ humour were intended to entertain us or just my father. It wasn’t until adulthood that I realised these people were at no risk of falling off the roof other than if the sheer surprise of being heckled overwhelmed them.
My father’s favourite joke was simple and of the ‘hit and run’ variety. If, whilst driving, he spotted someone on the roof of a house or building, he would pull the car to the side of the road, wind down the window, stick out his head and yell: ‘Don’t jump, mate!’ Before the startled stranger had a chance to gather his wits and respond, my father would vigorously wind the window back up and drive off at the greatest pace a Nissan E-20 minivan could manage. What victims of this joke thought as they watched a small bus with seven people inside lurch back into the traffic barely stands thinking about. I couldn’t tell you whether these attempts at ‘drive by’ humour were intended to entertain us or just my father. It wasn’t until adulthood that I realised these people were at no risk of falling off the roof other than if the sheer surprise of being heckled overwhelmed them.
Entertaining children is no easy task. As an uncle, I realise I’ve got a pretty sweet deal in that I can swan in, impress my nieces and nephews and then disappear before any of the hard work is required. However, when my sister and brother law decided to go away to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary, Kate volunteered to look after their four children for two nights. I thought this was an incredibly generous offer until it became clear that the volunteering had been done on my behalf also.
Two days can be a very long time, particularly when children are involved. I instantly knew that there was no way I could sustain the appearance of being interesting to my nephews and niece for that long. Kate had a distinct advantage in that she had decided to spend much of the time doing craft with Matilda and teaching her how to make pom poms. I, on the other hand, spent twenty minutes messing around with a ukulele and tuned a guitar before running out of things to do. By midway through the first afternoon, the living room was littered with pom poms. Given that craft is my not-so-secret Achilles heel, there was nothing I could add to the pom pom process other than to give each pom pom its own name. Treating them as people, I turned the first one into a pirate called Long John Pom Pom, before adding a Jedi knight (Obi Wan Pom Pom) and a mafiaso kingpin (Don Pom Pom). My personal favourite, was a particularly plush looking pom pom that I named after a rock and roll singer calling it ‘Jon Pom Pom Jovi’. It may sound kind of stupid, but I swear that the sight of Jon Pom Pom Jovi belting out a rendition of ‘Living on a Prayer’ was almost too much for my nephews to take.
I felt I was on a roll. Four hours in and with only a day and a half to go, my luck had started to turn. We then switched on the news only to be confronted with a report featuring the Australian Cricket team. There are, apparently, players named ‘Marsh’ and ‘Watson’ both of whom were experiencing injury problems. However, when the newsreader referred to the difficulties faced by ‘Marsh’ and ‘Watson’, it sounded to my ears as though our national cricket squad was desperately awaiting the return of ‘Martian Watson’. I wondered aloud at how I had managed to miss the elevation of ‘Martian Watson’ to the national cricket squad. I imagined him taking the field, his skin as green as his uniform. As a fast bowler steamed in towards the crease, Martian Watson would casually toss his bat aside and produce a ray gun, vaporising the incoming bowler with a bolt of laser. For those who fear that cricket has become a little boring, this could not fail to spark some level of interest. My nephews were – if not amused – then at least mildly impressed.
Things only got better. Whilst in my car returning with the dinner, we passed a sedan towing a small trailer. Inside the trailer was a Shetland Pony. Turning to my nephews, I said, ‘I asked him what he was doing in a trailer but he didn’t answer. It’s probably because he’s a little hoarse.’ Granted, it’s a joke that works better in the hearing than in the writing, but never again will circumstances conspire to allow me to make that joke. Giddy at my success, I readily agreed to join a round of backyard cricket. My nephews play a special brand of the game whereby they use an oversized novelty tennis ball. Agreeing to bat, I took my stance as the ball hurtled towards me like a rogue planet. Swinging with all my might, I immediately sent the ball onto the roof. There is, I feel, no greater disgrace than to be one that brings a game to a sudden, unnatural halt. Without a spare, there was no choice other than fetch the ladder and get up on the roof. As I reached the top rung, I did all I could to ensure that I didn’t fall off and disgrace myself. It was a tense moment and, wanting to ease the nerves of my nephews as well as my own, I called out, ‘Don’t jump mate!’ My nephews looked at me more with pity than amusement. The joke that had puzzled me whilst in the backseat of the E-20 was no funnier now that it was all those years ago. Some jokes are very much in the telling, whilst others are a matter of opportunity. But when it comes to jokes that you’ve inherited, it’s best to wind up the window and drive away as fast as you possibly can.