SO… A lot of comedic writing starts with ‘so’. As if to say, ‘so’. I told you so. Perhaps even, ‘so, how’s it going, fancy some laughs, a chuckle or a hearty arse-raging laugh fest? Why is this so?
So; here I wish to start not with ‘so’, but soap. Or soda. Or socialism. Or any as-so-ciates of the word. Supposing (so-pposing?, No, shh.) I was able to create an entirely so-lo so-liloquy in this fashion, could it be considered comedy? Recently (I’ve given up on the ‘so’, by the way) I have wondered as to the power of words to be funny, but not in the traditional align-them-together-in-a-sentence-and-observe way, but in terms of word play and manipulating letters. Taking the original and warping it, playing with it until its meaning is perverted.
I have decided, therefore, to start a blog-style, weekly instalment of writing exploring such word play, following characters called Mr and Mrs Malbec, named after the type of red wine – no idea why. Let us see what adventures they get up to.
Help yourselves to the first instalment:
It had been a long time since Malbec had written. He was enduring two weeks of tennis elbow after watching Wimbledon, and whilst his wife didn’t grumble, she was confused by this assumption and put the blame on his aggressive tossing of bread to the local pigeons.
Malbec had been documenting some projects. His first was an attempt to defy the field of science by peeling a banana with a cheese grater, which was eagerly awaiting submission to Yale’s Hispanic Studies department, an administrative error on his part. On his desk lay a claim for Missing Relative Insurance; his neighbour’s husband had been skiing but declared missing since Thursday and Malbec was feeling a bit piste-off about it.
There was something odd when he returned to his desk today. His watch had disappeared. Whilst he wasn’t an astute man he was proud of his ability to see through both lenses in his spectacles at the same time, often quoting Johnny Nash to his circle of blind friends. His friends’ intended shape was obviously not a circle, rather a pentagon, but Malbec never pointed it out in the hope that they would soon become synchronised gymnasts. His wife and he shared a warm and spacious house complete with a fine Belgian art collection, watercolours of Stella Artois lined the swimming pool with panache. Malbec was still unsure as to who panache was, but his flute playing was immaculate and it pleased Mrs Malbec and so panache was allowed to stay in the guestroom.
To be continued, next week…