Gay wit: Class Struggle in code

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Gay wit: Class Struggle in code


Noel Coward on himself:

I should love to perform "There Are Fairies in the Bottom of My Garden" (Bea Lillie's signature song), but I don't dare. It might come out "There Are Fairies in the Garden of My Bottom."

Told a particularly stupid acquaintance had blown his brains out:

“He must have been an incredibly good shot.”

On marriage and divorce:

"The ladies of earlier years were far smarter. No pants, drinking, swearing and competing with the boys; they just stayed put and, as a general rule, got their own way and held their gentlemen much longer. It really isn't surprising that homosexuality is becoming as normal as blueberry pie."

Actor Kenneth Tynan on Noel Coward:

"Theatrically speaking, it was Coward who took sophistication out of the refrigerator and put it on the hob . . . Even the youngest of us will know, in fifty years' time, precisely what is meant by 'a very Noel Coward sort of person.”
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An article by Willow Lawson in the October 2005 issue of Psychology Today makes interesting points: the sexes view humour very differently, says Lawson - males seek a humour “appreciator” and women look for men who are humour “generators”; males tend to use humour to “compete with other men” while women use humour to “bond with others”.

Is this sparring between the sexes the reason why gay people are so witty? Could it be the genus of the very term “gay” updated from the cruel epithets of the past? Are Gays, freed of the compulsions of gender postures, better laugh appreciator/generators or does the hilarity mask something darker? Is the gay humour well nigh necessary to stave off the insecurities of living in an oft threatened and unstable republic?

And is the new coinage - metrosexual, ubersexual, retrosexual, nanosexual (to describe those who are sexually reductionist to the power thousand), all minted fresh as new plastic, just a way of getting some fresh air? Do these twee niche definitions really help? Are bisexuals old hat or dodgy and ruthless as always?

Ponder on the smallest thought you can muster: laid back in a saloon chair ready to be pampered, deliciously decadent in typhoon, tsunami, earthquake, plague and amidst terrorist atrocity. Better butter still with micro environment enhancers: wicked little Espressos to cut chunks of gossip with, iPod cocooning when a whisper grows tiresome, make-the-world-go-away air-conditioning.

Indulge yourself with slushes of endless manicure, pedicure, facial, colouring, piercing, gym sculpting, tattoozoning and a swipe or two from the plastic surgeon to rival Zorro, the Gay Blade…Stack these pancakes on top of French fragrances, Scottish drink, the styling, the accessories, the bling…

Do it quick before the much too serious clash of civilisations ends it all in a blue nihilistic heap of indistinguishable shape. Or you stop breathing anyway.

Beauty is truly its own reward this side of Valhalla. Self-esteem is skin deep - both the cleansed kind and the type grown in a Petri dish. It’s tough love actually because all this is hard work and just as futile as sand castle-building. The good thing is that it can put the Casino back into your Royale a few more times before the waves come in.

Intellectuals that think it’s ersatz, banal, unrealised, vulgar, fey or other such opaque descriptor beloved of the species should pull their onanistic fingers out and gaze (honestly) upon some pretty young thing for authentication.

Is wit just spontaneous ebullience then, a wholesome celebration of life bubbling forth like a mountain spring or does it often run on darker fuel? Is wit class struggle in code? Take all the peoples at the butt end- Pole, Jew, Sardar, Blonde, Black, Cripple, Noel Cowards…

How long before the funniest cripple jokes are being told by a chap in a wheel chair? The target avenges himself. It’s a counter coup pulled during the siesta hour dignified by owning the material as only an insider can. The funnies are really about courage. You laugh till it hurts. You stand up and salute. You know you can’t belittle a man who laughs at himself.

(698 words)

Title: Gay wit: Class Struggle in code
By Ghatotkach
Tuesday 25th October 2005


This and all original essays on GHATOTKACHSERIES are copyright 2005 by Gautam Mukherjee. All Rights Reserved.