The Dullest Blog: Comedy ramblings to inspire the dullest moments of your week
The Dullest Blog has taken a couple of weeks' break whilst the comedians of this great country recover their livers from the Fringe. But we're Back to School now, starting with the magnificent Bratchy.
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BACK TO SCHOOL
I will begin with a recollection. Perhaps this particular recollection will hold a bitter sting of recognition for some reading it.
It involves a young boy sitting on a bench, shifting uncomfortably as his back scrapes against rusty, cold climbing bars attached to the wall behind him. He lazily stares at the ceiling, as the persistent angry squeak of rubber shoes on a scratched wooden floor permeates his thoughts, and the inescapable odour of dried sweat and methane permeates his nose.
Another boy, part of a group, points at him, utters his name and beckons him forward. He sighs, rises to his feet and reluctantly joins the huddled mob, all too aware that his peers who surround him are infinitely more capable and talented than he, and thus he will never truly be worthy of their respect.
The boy on the bench is me. And I’ve just been picked last for a team in P.E. class. Again.
This happened to me frequently in school. The fateful experience of watching everyone else, one by one, enthusiastically being chosen before me, thus creating some sort of horrific league table of popularity, with me constantly fighting relegation. Like a sort of high school St. Mirren. I wasn’t picked last all the time, to be fair. Sometimes I would sit next to James Campbell, and he would be picked last. But James Campbell was one of those kids that wore glasses with lenses so thick they made his eyeballs resemble a fish pond. He also had a permanent wee bit of white spittle at either side of his mouth, which would froth up during the pronunciation of certain words, and he smelled like leek soup. So being the penultimate sports team member next to him wasn’t really a massive achievement.
This recollection may paint a picture of me being some kind of disaffected loner, unable to fit in with the more sports oriented kids around him. That wasn’t strictly the case. In fact, I remember recounting stories of my hatred for P.E. amongst other observations of school life to my classmates, and them laughing. I remember being proud to possess the ability to make them laugh, and being cognisant of the fact that it could be a powerful thing. Maybe I couldn’t kick or throw a ball towards them, but I could throw a punchline or two instead, and found that experience a lot more satisfying.
Appropriate, then, that years later, I find myself frequently on stage, still throwing out punchlines, still seeking the comforting affirmation of laughter. But I’m having a great time doing it. And if I see any of the boys from school who always picked me last sitting in the audience? Well, they’re the ones I pick on first.
Karma, unlike physical education, is a wonderful thing.