At Last - The Sanctity of Comedy
To me, there has always been something almost Holy about Comedy. Something to be revered in the art of bringing hilarity and amusement to the masses. To achieve utter absurdity would be like attaining a state of Nirvana. The sound of one man laughing. If a tree chuckles in the forest at a joke it heard 5000 years ago, and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Points to ponder indeed. There are always endless questions to ask in every religion and Comedy is certainly no different to the next religion that ambles along the corridor whistling Any Old Iron. For example: who is Comedy's Messiah? And who it's Antichrist? Who are it's Prophets? And who are the Romans anyway? If Bill Hicks was Comedy's Messiah, then was the Cancer that killed him, the Romans? Can I be one of it's prophets? Am I putting myself on too high a plinth to be admired for my absurdity? Can I only fall?
And so I was thinking of starting an order of absurdist nuns. Does anyone want to join me? You'd wear a nun's habit but you'd have a Whoopee cushion tucked into your belt and an arrow through your head. And you'd carry a copy of Tragically I Was An Only Twin by Peter Cook under your arm at all times. You'd utter at least one knock knock joke an hour and you'd commit every Goon Show to memory. You'd go on daily retreat to meditate on such matters as "Who was funnier, The Goons or The Pythons?" and "Why does Les Dennis think he's funny?". You'd bring gentle hilarity to the sick and elderly, bring light into the lives of the saddened and dulled.
And would that it be so, and not just an idle thought passing through the wilderbeast of my aimless mind.
For long ago, I decided to dedicate my life to Comedy, when all other avenues of dedication seemed pointless and wasteful. Comedy is the one and only calling that I have ever heard, it is my vocation. Maybe it will be a long and lonely path I will tread in the pursuit of Comedy, torn with sadness and depression like it was for Tony Hancock and Spike Milligan... but one day... one day when I knock on the Pearly Gates to see if they'll let me in, well St Peter will either grin, throw one of my quotes at me and let me in, or kick my irreverent arse off the cloud and send me hurtling down to Hell.
Surely that's the final absurdity? No it's not. This is the final absurdity, right here and right now. And it is this: a bag of porridge.
END!
Points to ponder indeed. There are always endless questions to ask in every religion and Comedy is certainly no different to the next religion that ambles along the corridor whistling Any Old Iron. For example: who is Comedy's Messiah? And who it's Antichrist? Who are it's Prophets? And who are the Romans anyway? If Bill Hicks was Comedy's Messiah, then was the Cancer that killed him, the Romans? Can I be one of it's prophets? Am I putting myself on too high a plinth to be admired for my absurdity? Can I only fall?
And so I was thinking of starting an order of absurdist nuns. Does anyone want to join me? You'd wear a nun's habit but you'd have a Whoopee cushion tucked into your belt and an arrow through your head. And you'd carry a copy of Tragically I Was An Only Twin by Peter Cook under your arm at all times. You'd utter at least one knock knock joke an hour and you'd commit every Goon Show to memory. You'd go on daily retreat to meditate on such matters as "Who was funnier, The Goons or The Pythons?" and "Why does Les Dennis think he's funny?". You'd bring gentle hilarity to the sick and elderly, bring light into the lives of the saddened and dulled.
And would that it be so, and not just an idle thought passing through the wilderbeast of my aimless mind.
For long ago, I decided to dedicate my life to Comedy, when all other avenues of dedication seemed pointless and wasteful. Comedy is the one and only calling that I have ever heard, it is my vocation. Maybe it will be a long and lonely path I will tread in the pursuit of Comedy, torn with sadness and depression like it was for Tony Hancock and Spike Milligan... but one day... one day when I knock on the Pearly Gates to see if they'll let me in, well St Peter will either grin, throw one of my quotes at me and let me in, or kick my irreverent arse off the cloud and send me hurtling down to Hell.
Surely that's the final absurdity? No it's not. This is the final absurdity, right here and right now. And it is this: a bag of porridge.
END!