Too soon?

Here is a question I want answered: How much time has to pass before a wrongful, sinful or shameful act becomes something that we are allowed to joke about?

(And by ‘we’ I mean you or me, not Frankie Boyle or Louis CK.)

At the minute, the best answer I have got is this: You do not know until you give it a go.

Or, to put it another way by misquoting Tommy Tiernan: There is a line, however, it is one you only find out about after you have crossed it.

Humour is as ineffable as it is enjoyable, and as enjoyable as it is useful. The reasons people laugh are often mysterious, not only to observers who do not share their sense of humour, but often to the people themselves.

I, for example, have only started to get the better of a terrible tendency to burst into laughter when somebody tells me bad news. Do I find other people’s intense suffering funny? I do not think so. Do I sometimes laugh when I am told about someone’s intense suffering? Yes I do.

Point I am making: Humour is complicated, deeply personal, and, thus, an absolute minefield.

Sigmund Freud, aka the father of psychoanalysis, was intensely preoccupied with humour, jokes and comedy.

However, being the father of psychoanalysis, his fascination with the funny did not manifest in regular trips to the comedy club or the back-to-back watching of Jim Carey films.

Rather, so possessed was he by a desire to dissect and define humour and all its causes, consequences and uses, in 1905 he published a book entitled ‘Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious’.

I have read bits and pieces of it and can say that it is as unfunny as it is interesting.

It turns out that books which set out to describe, quantify and categorise humour are not the bundle of laughs one (I) might have naively imagined them to be.

The reason I bring up Freud’s effort to scientifically study humour is because I sincerely wish he had been successful.

As far as I know, while his studies amounted to interesting speculation, they failed to furnish us with a concrete understanding of what humour is, how it works, and the ways it can be used.

This, I contest, is a darn shame.

Had old Simgund’s endeavours borne fruit, we might be able to walk into a bookshop today, scan the self-help and relationships section, and find a foolproof bride-building guide entitled ‘How To Joke Your Way Back Into The Good Books’.

Alas, in the absence of scientific insight in this area, we are left with only own our wit and experience to call upon when determining whether now is the right time to unleash our relationship-saving zinger.

I don’t know about you, but I trust neither my wit nor experience enough for this job.

I recall when I was a teenager once trying to prematurely joke my way back into favour with my parents, only to compound the coldness of the shoulder I was trying to warm.

The sin for which I was supposed to be repenting at the time fell into the ‘underage drinking’ category.

I will briefly recall the night in question in only its most essential detail.

While boking my ring up in a field not far from my house, I checked my phone and seen I had received about 40 unexpected calls and texts from my parents.

Text 7: “Where are you?”

Text 11: “Where r u?”

Text 24: “Where?”

Text 31: “?”

Even in my steaming state, I knew the increasing brevity of these messages was symbolic of the growing fury of my parents.

Promptly expelling the remaining vodka and cider from my stomach, I wobbled home.

Just as I lifted my fist to knock the locked door, my ma pulled it open like a flash.

She had a face like stone.

“You have been drinking,” she observed, accurately… and furiously.

As I stuttered through my slurred line of defence, she picked a bottle of vodka from my pocket.

Yes, I had forgotten to remove the empty quarter bottle from my coat pocket, and now watched with double vision as the evidence was waved before my face. The house was quiet for a few days, and a wintry breeze chilled every fleeting encounter we had.

Eventually, feeling like I had expressed ample contrition and wishing to instigate a thaw so as to put an end to the unbearable hostility, I plucked up the courage to walk into enemy territory and break the ice.

“Jesus, cold out today isn’t it… Could do with a warming. What’d you do with my bottle of vodka, Mum?”

Quiet turned to silence and frost turned to ice.

I cannot mind how long it was before we got back on good terms, but I know I did not build the bridge that brought us together again.