I wrote last week about my daughter Rachel naming a star after her mum as a Christmas present. It was a gift that touched our hearts and brought a tear to the green eyes of her courageous and selfless mother.
Despite a naming error during the administration set up, we were deeply moved by the thoughtfulness of our offspring. Now all Karen has to do is change her name to Arthur Trubshaw and she will have a star named after her for eternity.
Romanticising about Karen’s intergalactic legacy set my mind meandering with abandon. It navigated several neurological avenues as it sought to compose a suitable soliloquy. A literary tribute of my own to my County Durham born spouse.
It was a pleasant enough journey, apart from being slowed down by a contraflow around Droitwich!
One of my favourite monologues by the late comedian Les Dawson is where he eruditely waxes lyrical about the night sky. This came to mind during my neurological journey. His articulate narrative went as follows:-
“I was sat at the bottom of the garden a week ago, smoking a reflective cheroot, thinking about this and that – mostly that – and I just happened to glance at the night sky, and I marvelled at the millions of stars glistening like little pieces of quicksilver thrown carelessly onto black velvet. In awe, I watched the waxen moon ride across the zenith of the heavens like an amber chariot towards the void of infinite space wherein the tethered bolts of Jupiter and Mars hang forever festooned in all their orbital majesty, and as I looked at all this, I thought to myself, ‘I must put a roof on this lavatory.’”
I am a huge admirer of Mr Dawson’s long, drawn-out wordy monologues with their comedic twist at their conclusion. His deadpan, cynical delivery added greatly to the narrative, which were bequeathed to his audience with tongue very firmly in cheek!
He skillfully crafted the ramblings, utilising his extensive vocabulary almost to the point of pretentiousness. They were cleverly written and, for me anyway, stand the test of time as still funny.
Many years ago I read one of his books on a summer vacation in Tenerife. I recall spending many hours laid on a sun lounger laughing out loud at his fictional ramblings. His acerbic insights about Blackpool Bed & Breakfast establishments were genuinely hilarious observations.
One of the days a guy on the next lounger seemed quite unsettled at my behaviour. I’m not sure if it was because I was spoiling his peace with my laughter, or whether he was getting sick of me reading the book over his shoulder!
I’ve heard it said by more sensitive souls, that segments of Les Dawson’s humour can be construed as overly cynical and confrontational. To those people I’d retort that it isn’t, he is only kidding! It’s fictional and he didn’t genuinely dislike the people (generally mother in laws) that he was pouring ridicule upon.
Not only was Les Dawson a funny writer and skilled at his delivery, he could also raise a laugh with his visual humour. Sometimes vocabulary wasn’t required to achieve a giggle; just one of his trademark gurns.
After breaking a jaw when he was a junior boxer, he had the ability to contort his face to some truly amazing extremes! If he’d have had that ability when his mother gave birth to him, he very probably would have been born inside out!
Right, it’s midnight and I’m tired, my soliloquy to Karen will have to wait until I’ve had a kip.
Until next time, as someone once said ……….. And if they didn’t, they should have!