The Bridge at the Side of Lidl.
How Do You Forget Something So Memorable?
In the latest Poets, Prattlers, and Pandemonialists show there is a bit where I talk about doing some graffiti art and my first mural being “On the bridge at the side of Lidl.”
Obviously, that’s artistic license. I have never, nor will I ever, have the confidence for my artwork to become public. Yet in the many performances we’ve had of that show, all the rehearsals and all the line learning I completely forgot about being taught a secret to comedy on that bridge.
Going back a few years I’m sure the bridge was a bit wider. The road was a common shortcut from that part of Willenhall to Hooty’s1. It was pockmarked with pot holes like it was the face of a teenager who had spent the last week washing with chip fat.
So about eighteen years ago I was driving towards it. I hadn’t long passed my test and I was tentatively approaching the blind hump back bridge unsure what was coming the other way.
When something did come the other way.
Gently rolling over the top of the hump back came a single tyre. It bounced slightly over the pot holes but somehow maintained a steady course. And I burst out laughing.
Once it cleared the hump of the bridge it seemed to gain speed and confidence. I remember it bouncing on the edge of a pothole and this flung it into the air. That should have finished it off. But this tyre was a toddler finding not just it’s first steps but the joys of running across a beach with minimal adult supervision.2
The tyre was now hurtling towards my car. My little Golf Ryder3 would soon be feeling the thump of a circle of moulded rubber, relishing its freedom and the sensation of the wind through it’s tread without the incensant engine noises it was so used to. Still I laughed. I think I laughed harder.
It was followed by a breathren coming over the hill. Then another. Then another. An army of tyres released into the wild. Excitedly bouncing over potholes. Free at least. I was certainly laughing harder at this point.
There was a risk one or more of these escapees would pummel into my little car but it was a J Reg Golf Ryder which still had a choke. The tyres were probably worth more than the vehicle. If there was any concern it was more for the tyres.
Avoid me pretty tyres. Race into Willenhall, visit Tom’s Cafe4, say hello to the Spud man5 and be amazed when the guy on the market just looks at you and knows exactly what size school uniform you need for Queen Mary’s.6
But sadly the excitement went to their head and as they reached the bottom of the slope they rolled sideways to bash into walls and parked cars which weren’t my little Golf Ryder called Steve.
Obviously this had all been created not by runaway tyres but local kids with minimal adult supervision. They quickly came running over the hill themselves and laughed at the tyre graveyard before them. In my car I laughed with them even though it was obvious I now had to turn around and go the long way round Rose Hill and anyone who does that knows it’s a ball ache.
As I drove round I wondered why I’d found it so funny. It’s kids throwing tyres over a bonk. That’s not funny. So why had I laughed.
Then I realised it was the surprise of it.
Jokes are surprises.
Like me in that car a joke makes you think you’re going one way but then something happens and you end up somewhere else.
It was nice to be able to deconstruct the very nature of jokes like that while heading to Hooty’s.7 Of course, I immediately claimed I was wrong. “What about magic tricks, Dave?” my brain said mockingly. Then I realised it’s common for people to laugh at magic tricks. A good magic trick makes us smile and even laugh. It’s the surprise.
Obviously not all surprises make you laugh. An unexpected push in the back by a burglar as you open your front isn’t a laugh riot but there’s a big degree of personal safety issues going on in that scenario.
So personal safety aside comedy is a suprise.
And that brings us to the current state of comedy.
I’m not sure why but in the past audiences seemed to not really give two fucks for their fellow audience members. There were always people who spoke out about comedians who were sexist, racism or homophobic but they were a minority. You just have to go back a few years and picking on someone for the mutable characteristics was met with laughter. Punching down was met with laughter.
I always felt sorry for the target8. Even if they weren’t put in physical danger they were certainly made to feel uncomfortable. It was a line between tyres coming over the hump of a bridge and flaming, exploding tyres being thrown directly into your face. Both are surprises. But we can see how one is more problematic.
When it’s all said and done, I suppose it’s a good job I didn’t remember any of all this while on stage doing the PPP show. I reckon I’d have forgotton my next line.
I know it sounds like a topless bar. But it wasn’t a topless bar. It’s now The Range and Hooty’s was The Range of the late 1990’s early 2000’s.
I maintain the happiest most children will be is not in front of an iPad but running on a beach with minimal adult supervision. As an adult you can keep an eye on them but as a child you feel free of the shackles of your care givers. You can do anything and you choose to run.
We all know that’s a metaphor, don’t we?
I called it Steve. After Steve Ryder.
Not there anymore.
Still there.
Still there.
Definitely not a topless bar.
Except hecklers. Hecklers, by heckling, have entered a contract which states, “You can, and you must, destroy the very fibre of my being so I can learn the valuable lesson that if I think I’m funny I’ll put together a 10 minute set and go round the clubs and not shout one line out from in the dark.”