During the week that President Trump advocated swallowing bleach to get shot of Coronavirus 😟, I struggled with re-working the humour that stitches together one of my 92,000-word works-in-progress.
I was searching for a little light relief to come from somewhere, anywhere. Something, anything, to crack me up, and I eventually found it with Sindhu Vee, Live at the Apollo, on catch-up TV last night.
My love for stand-up comics has been blinkered for years by a long-standing soft spot I have for Michael McIntyre. But, after a laugh-out-loud twenty minutes with Sindhu Vee, Mr McIntyre now has competition for my rib-tickling affection.
“I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it’s the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It’s probably the most important thing in a person.”
A good laugh is beneficial in so many ways. It relaxes you, sometimes to the point of incontinence, but above all, it makes you feel happy. 😄
Sharing a sense of humour has drawn me to the people in my life I am closest to. It is key to sustaining and enhancing long-term relationships. You and your soulmate may row off the Richter scale but, as long as you can fall about laughing afterwards, you can be sure your relationship is going to stand the test of time. I’ve also just learnt that, if you have a good old guffaw for at least fifteen minutes a day, you burn off 40 calories. So, if you laugh for an hour a day, you’ll burn off your breakfast.
So Sindhu Vee, thank you for making me laugh out loud. I’ve been focussing on my funny since five o’clock this morning.
‘Now, Elizabeth, I just want you to count to three and breathe in through your nose then, on the count of four, breathe out through your mouth…’ The soft, reassuring tone of his lilting Scottish accent reflected the calm he felt within but was failing to convey to Elizabeth.
‘And I, just want you to get this thing out of me!’
‘Elizabeth! Your baby is doing fine.’
‘Well bully for the baby, I’m not doing fine!’ Looking down, she watched as Dr Gladstone, brow furrowed, peered at her vagina. Squinting his eyes behind his round, metal-framed spectacles, he calmly announced that the baby’s head was crowning.
‘This is all so bloody infra dig.’ Elizabeth whimpered. ‘One feels like one of Fergus’s prize heifers giving birth with everybody gawping up my pudenda.’
A deep-throated groan escaped her lips as she kicked out her right leg, the heel of her foot impacting the bridge of the good doctor’s nose. As the grandfather clock in the hall struck 12 o’clock noon, Lisa Elizabeth Grant shot out of her mother’s vagina coated in a mix of amniotic fluid, blood and vernix. Her cries were barely audible, drowned out by her nineteen-year-old mother’s blood-curdling screams.
‘That’s the last time I’m ever bloody well going to go through all this! Do you hear me, Fergus Grant? You can keep your trousers on in future!’
Fergus heard as he ran down the path from the farm to the house, as did all the neighbours living within a five-mile radius. Given his relationship with Elizabeth, it was likely that Lisa would remain an only child.
Just Say It © 2020 Tessa Barrie