Humour is very personal. There’s usually humour somewhere in everything I write – even in the more serious pieces. Now that I’m writing more pantomimes, I think this part of my creativity is regularly exercised.
Personally, I like Woody Allen, especially the ‘earlier, funnier ones’, and equally so his small canon of book writing. It inspired me in the early 2000s to dig into my inner weirdness and cut loose without regard to form, length, character arc, subject, political correctness, popularity, genre or conventions.
“The Real Jamie Oliver and Other Stories” may have some of those attributes, but if it does, it’s a huge accident.
You can see many of the shorter humour pieces in my blog.
You can also read for free through online stores, or buy. Here’s a taster:
“Jamie Oliver was born Margaret Ig in deepest revolutionary France some fortyfew years ago. His early years were spent living in a lake, where his parents has taken up residence to avoid the all-pervading strains of Charles Aznavour records.
At the age of five and barely out of nappies, his childhood was traumatised by the sudden arrest of his father on charges of making sexual overtures towards a pickled herring.
At the trial, his father, Ernest Ig, threw himself on the mercy of the court and asked for sixty-three other charges to be taken into account, including committing a lewd act with a hatstand, bathing in discarded film footage of Morris Dancing, and fathering Bonnie Langford whilst under the influence of low-fat yoghurt.
The jury of one man, one woman and ten hermaphrodites gleefully found him guilty, and he was shipped off to the “La Fondue” minimum security prison and retail ear-muff outlet. There he was subjected to such diverse tortures as the inmates could muster; Chinese burns and towel-flicking were rife, and the enforced watching of Jim Davidson videos had the authorities overwhelmed.
However, the family’s separation was happily short lived when Ernest was rescued by Margaret and her mother Claudine in a daring lunchtime raid. Disguising themselves as freelance travel agents, they easily entered the facility and absconded with a struggling Ernest, who had been quite enjoying himself until then.”