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digitalravenAn Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman walk into a pub. On their way to the bar, their old friend the Welshman waves to them from a table.
"Evening gents. What's occurring?" Asks the son of the Valleys.
"Aw fuck, no' him," the Scotsman stage-whispers.
"Sorry," says the Englishman. "We're just at the start of a joke. At least, I think it's a joke. It could be a crap anecdote, of the sort told by dreary middle-managers."
"Like yourself?" The Irishman asks.
"Yes, like myself." The Englishman doffs his bowler hat, clearly wanting the joke to progress.
The Welshman stands up. "Now lads, you know I'm always up for a part in a joke! I bring the mournful songs of the ancient mountains, as a fourth national stereotype to contrast that of you three."
"I suppose," says the Irishman. "But the problem is, the four-man band has fallen out of favour. It's the Englishman, Irishman, and Scotsman who feature in all the jokes people can remember. They also feature in people's crap anecdotes. I'm afraid nobody remembers the Welshman, so you get left out."
"Don't spare my feelings," grumbles the Welshman.
"Wee Paddy's right," adds the Scotsman. "If youse are askin' me, I reckon it's racism. I mean, they keep me in the joke even though ahm ginger. The only thing worse than being ginger is being Welsh, to maist folk."
"Hold on, you're ginger?" The Englishman frowns at this revelation.
"Aye. Have ye no eyes?"
"No. I'm a figment of a national character created solely in a shared memetic space in order to derive humour from crude stereotypes. But then, I only noticed that it was you saying that because of the truly awful accent you're written in. For some reason, the Irishman's avoided that particular problem," says the Englishman, determined to keep his attribution line.
"It's just the prick writing this wouldn't be happy using a particular Irish accent for fear of pissing off people from the Free State or the North," says the Irishman.
"He's also about eighty if he's still calling it the Free State," adds the Welshman. "But look. I can still be part of it. I'll reclaim my national stereotype from the fires of hatred. Surely Gavin and Stacey has done that much?"
"Nah. That Rob Brydon is a total twat, and it's also cursed by including that talentless gibbon James Corden" the barman says. "You're not getting back in to a joke for a long time, and your only presence in crap anecdotes will be sentimentalists recalling a golden age of prejudice through whimsical metahumour." To underline his point, the barman spits into a glass and proceeds to clean it. Or to wipe it, at least.
"Oh," the Welshman deflates. "So I'm left with no chance, then?"
"I'm afraid not, old bean." The Englishman's lip trembles for a moment, "but see here, I'll get you a drink in."
"That's very kind of you."
The Irishman pipes up: "I'd take a wee pint of Guinness. Since you volunteered and all."
"Ahd no' say no tae a dram an' a pint o' heavy, while yuir wallet's open."
"I'm sorry, what?" The Englishman looks baffled.
"I think he's after a pint of beer and a whisky," the Welshman clarifies.
"Then why didn't he say so?"
"I don't know."
"Look," says the Irishman. "If we're getting a round in, we might as well just forget the joke. Catch up on old times."
"Aye, tha'd be guid."
"But only if you stop talking like that," the Englishman insists.
The barman pours four pints, and a whisky for the Scotsman, which the characters carry back to the Welshman's table. Three flies try to dive-bomb each pint, but stop at the last moment when the Scotsman glares at them. "Awa' an' fuck off with yis. 's no' tha' joke."
The Welshman digs some coins out of his pocket. "I wonder if the jukebox has any Tom Jones...."
"Evening gents. What's occurring?" Asks the son of the Valleys.
"Aw fuck, no' him," the Scotsman stage-whispers.
"Sorry," says the Englishman. "We're just at the start of a joke. At least, I think it's a joke. It could be a crap anecdote, of the sort told by dreary middle-managers."
"Like yourself?" The Irishman asks.
"Yes, like myself." The Englishman doffs his bowler hat, clearly wanting the joke to progress.
The Welshman stands up. "Now lads, you know I'm always up for a part in a joke! I bring the mournful songs of the ancient mountains, as a fourth national stereotype to contrast that of you three."
"I suppose," says the Irishman. "But the problem is, the four-man band has fallen out of favour. It's the Englishman, Irishman, and Scotsman who feature in all the jokes people can remember. They also feature in people's crap anecdotes. I'm afraid nobody remembers the Welshman, so you get left out."
"Don't spare my feelings," grumbles the Welshman.
"Wee Paddy's right," adds the Scotsman. "If youse are askin' me, I reckon it's racism. I mean, they keep me in the joke even though ahm ginger. The only thing worse than being ginger is being Welsh, to maist folk."
"Hold on, you're ginger?" The Englishman frowns at this revelation.
"Aye. Have ye no eyes?"
"No. I'm a figment of a national character created solely in a shared memetic space in order to derive humour from crude stereotypes. But then, I only noticed that it was you saying that because of the truly awful accent you're written in. For some reason, the Irishman's avoided that particular problem," says the Englishman, determined to keep his attribution line.
"It's just the prick writing this wouldn't be happy using a particular Irish accent for fear of pissing off people from the Free State or the North," says the Irishman.
"He's also about eighty if he's still calling it the Free State," adds the Welshman. "But look. I can still be part of it. I'll reclaim my national stereotype from the fires of hatred. Surely Gavin and Stacey has done that much?"
"Nah. That Rob Brydon is a total twat, and it's also cursed by including that talentless gibbon James Corden" the barman says. "You're not getting back in to a joke for a long time, and your only presence in crap anecdotes will be sentimentalists recalling a golden age of prejudice through whimsical metahumour." To underline his point, the barman spits into a glass and proceeds to clean it. Or to wipe it, at least.
"Oh," the Welshman deflates. "So I'm left with no chance, then?"
"I'm afraid not, old bean." The Englishman's lip trembles for a moment, "but see here, I'll get you a drink in."
"That's very kind of you."
The Irishman pipes up: "I'd take a wee pint of Guinness. Since you volunteered and all."
"Ahd no' say no tae a dram an' a pint o' heavy, while yuir wallet's open."
"I'm sorry, what?" The Englishman looks baffled.
"I think he's after a pint of beer and a whisky," the Welshman clarifies.
"Then why didn't he say so?"
"I don't know."
"Look," says the Irishman. "If we're getting a round in, we might as well just forget the joke. Catch up on old times."
"Aye, tha'd be guid."
"But only if you stop talking like that," the Englishman insists.
The barman pours four pints, and a whisky for the Scotsman, which the characters carry back to the Welshman's table. Three flies try to dive-bomb each pint, but stop at the last moment when the Scotsman glares at them. "Awa' an' fuck off with yis. 's no' tha' joke."
The Welshman digs some coins out of his pocket. "I wonder if the jukebox has any Tom Jones...."
no subject
Date: 2012-03-21 02:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-21 09:36 pm (UTC):>