A Family of Comedians

                                                               

‘We’re a family of comedians’ was how my dad described us to his bemused Oncologist, after he and I had maybe wise-cracked about the lamentable list of the weird and not-so-wonderful ailments he seemed to carry through his life like perverse badges of honour.

Talk about dark humour..!

As a child, to me my father was the funniest man in the world. Even my friends found him hilarious. ‘I wish my dad was like yours’ was a statement I heard often from my young contemporaries. He wasn’t like any of their fathers, who seemed dull as dishwater and somehow divorced, separate, from their very own families.

Though quite strict, my dad had a zany humour. He was a Goon’s protégée like many men of his generation. You’d be sitting there watching the TV and eating your tea with your mum and brother and he’d be behind the living room door slowly edging his eye round to look at you. He’d spend ages doing this, and we all knew he was there, we knew the routine. My mum would be the first to crack

‘Bobby..!’ and we’d be chuckling away.

‘Bobby, stop that please..?’ Still nothing, we’d see his fore-head still edging round the door, until eventually he’d go away cackling.

As a young child he’d invite me into his strange world of names he’d made up – ‘Segula Smudge’ was one that has stayed with me. Another was ‘Neek, Neek, Nak the Nook’, though this could be extended ad infinitum depending on how long he, and eventually I, could be bothered with it – what seemed like minutes sometimes – Neek, Neek, Nak, Neek, Neek, Nak, Neek ,Nak,Neek, Neek, Neek, Neek, Zak, Neek, Nak.....and on until breathless and laughing hysterically you’d have to stop.

To my mother, my father, apart from being infuriating, was the funny man in her life. It was laughter between a man and a wife, not really for outsiders, though any mutual friends they had always thought my dad was ‘a scream’. He had little mannerisms and quirks that she loved to laugh at and just annoyed the rest of us. We’d go ‘Da....!’ in an admonishing, embarrassed tone while my mum would be howling with laughter.

Was my mum ever funny? Even as the only female dealing with three males all competing for the limelight she could be funny at times. If the mood took her she’d rush into the living room and say ‘keech, toly, bum, fart’ and then howl laughing. Or she’d do a daft wee dance with my dad’s bunnet on and hoiking her skirts up. These incidents are funny in memory but as a fourteen year old were greeted with sullen poutiness. I regret this now, as I do so much more. The dynamics of a family are not always such that the obvious behaviours are applied.

My father would take my brother and I around to Forest Glades in Leytonstone where we’d play his own improvised version of cricket – near-away tree was four runs, far-away six, etc. He’d give us names to represent us.  I would be Benjamin Netanyahu; my brother would be Bishop Muzorewa, leaders of Israel and Zimbabwe respectively. Even in play we were being given a political education.

I never did find out who Nabadinge Sitole was...