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  • Oh buggar. I promised funny, didn’t I? OK, well before you’re disappointed, let me explain my comedic influences.

    Now, I'm in the UK, remember. And it was the mid-80s. So, where am I learning about 'humour'? From the satirical energy of Ben Elton, perhaps? Madcap Benny Hill re-runs?

    Nope.

    Dad.

    Dad’s jokes are terrible. I mean, really – cringingly awful. Some of them are downright offensive (those won’t be appearing here). But he was the only one really making jokes when we were young, so I generally entered the spirit of things.

    These are the jokes I grew up with. I may add that they were frequently repeated. In fact, sometimes daily.

    Every time we drove past a ‘strawberries: pick your own’ sign (we live in berry country):
    Dad: “Noses for sale: pick your own!”

    At dinner:
    Child: Please can I have a fork n’ knife?
    Dad: Yes, but there’s no need to swear.

    At breakfast:
    Dad would turn an empty boiled egg shell upside down and serve it up. (File under ‘interactive/visual joke’. So ahead of its time...)

    At any given moment:
    Dad: My dog has no nose
    Listener: *silence*
    Dad: How does it smell?
    Listener: *silence*
    Dad: Awful

    Reader; consider your expectations managed.


    ^ My Dad in the early 70s (I think). He looks like a hippie, doesn't he? He's not. He's far more serious now, though the jokes are still as dodgy.
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