Andy Richardson: No joke – laughter’s a vital ingredient in relationships
I have an unusual relationship with She Who Must Be Obeyed. I like to think some would look upon it with disdain, disappointed that two people could make one another laugh so hard and so often while never falling out.
And I’m pretty sure others would tut-tut at our innocent and harmless silliness.
Most sane individuals would observe the pair of us in full-on making-each-other-laugh-most-days mode and declare: ‘They need to be locked up.’
And perhaps we do.
The second-longest romantic relationship of my life is also the only one that’s worked. It is predicated on one thing and one thing alone: fun.
And so when She Who Must Be Obeyed returns from her day job of helping people who can’t help themselves and asks what her favourite loon has done today, I happily tell her I’ve been seeing my mistress.
As she rolls her eyes and inwardly laughs at the idea that I’d ever get so lucky, she asks such questions as: ‘Yeah, right, what’s her name?’ ‘Shirley,’ I reply. ‘But her codename is Sheila. We like to retain a sense of mystery.’
She Who Must Be Obeyed realises there is no chance of either a Shirley or a Sheila ever wasting their time on this boy-monkey, but indulges my whimsy nonetheless. ‘And what’s Shirley like?’ ‘7ft 2ins,’ I reply. ‘Is she a Christmas tree?’
We met in exactly the wrong place and at exactly the right time.
She wasn’t looking for a relationship and I’d sacked them off after years of getting them wrong.
Funny what a non-confrontational friendship can do, however, and some years later we make each other laugh more now than either of us ever thought possible.
My mother, incidentally, says the same thing over and over whenever I tell her stories about She Who Must Be Obeyed. It is this: ‘How on earth does she put up with you?’
She may have a point. It’s not just She Who Must Be Obeyed where making each other laugh is important.
A best mate – he will be reading, and I’d never knowingly miss out on the option to publicly embarrass him – wears a shirt from C&A. I know this because his wife told me. She has tended to it since 1976 and though it’s now as shiny and thin as a cigarette paper, he refuses to upgrade to something new like, oh, I don’t know, five shirts for £25 from Matalan.
And so I have written to said mate’s wife and asked her to invoice the business we run that makes nice books with an invoice for £25. We will make her dreams come true and buy those new shirts.
I like to think I’m being the milkman of human kindness, that my £25 will be better spent on five new shirts from Matalan than it will on four Waitrose lemon tarts, three steaks from the local farmshop or 15 bags of Marmite-flavoured cashew nuts from Sainsburys.
Still, she’s leaving me alone this afternoon. I am undergoing a further inking at the hands of a teenager who wants to start a career as a tattooist and needs useful idiots on whom to experiment. I applied. Funnily enough, she said yes. Her mum will accompany her as she scratches ink beneath the surface of my skin in homage to Jack Kerouac – I know, how does he find his way into a column about women as tall as Christmas trees and mates who wear C&A shirts?
I’d tried to get a professional to do it but they’re booked until autumn and by then I’ll have changed my mind and probably taken up ashtanga yoga and have invested in my own Zen shed.
So a quote about the mad ones being the only people to know will be permanently marked in homage to the author of On The Road. Maybe Sheila will think it’s great. Or was that Shirley? Can’t stop. I’ll report back next week. Ciao for now.
