If you tweeted about a particular snooker referee being the ex-boyfriend of one of the women in The Human League, and a friend of yours replied with ‘Don’t cue want me baby?’, how would you react? Would you groan, sneer and dismiss the pun as the lowest form of wit? Or would you – like me – laugh out loud and feel a surge of joy at the beauty of the wordplay? If the latter, come and stand with me in defence of puns. Not in a ‘guilty pleasure’ way, either, but as a proud statement that puns are wonderful and important.
I hate the snobbery that surrounds puns, the way they’re seen as second-rate language. A good pun – be it a joke, a newspaper headline or simply thrown into conversation – is everything language should be about. It’s concise, it’s economical, it’s effective. It can be a striking and memorable way of getting your point across. And even if it’s there just to raise a chuckle, the skill in its construction is something to admire.
A lot depends on context. Shakespeare is allowed to do puns because he’s Shakespeare. When he writes, ‘made glorious summer by this son of York’, people nod approvingly. When a camping shop announces a January sale with ‘now is the winter of our discount tents’, people lift their eyes to the heavens. Maybe it’s because humour is seen as trivial, as though the things we laugh at can’t matter very much. Actually the best humour (according to some theorists) works precisely because it relates to a fundamental truth.
Some comedians have built their entire careers on puns. Tim Vine, for instance: ‘I was at sea the other day and loads of meat floated past. It was a bit choppy.’ And Milton Jones: ‘My aunt Marge has been so ill for so long that we’ve started to call her, “I can’t believe she’s not better”.’ Yes, exposure to too many ‘dad jokes’ at once can be wearing – but then so is exposure to too much of anything. The great Barry Cryer was always quick to defend jokes that depended on wordplay such as: ‘What do you call a hen looking at a lettuce? A chicken caesar salad.’ The construction of that is as pleasing to behold as a well-made watch movement.
The best puns are the ones that obey the ‘jumping a gap’ theory of comedy. For a joke to work, your brain needs to have made an effort – similar to the physical effort of jumping over a gap – so that you feel rewarded. But if the gap is too big, you either resent the effort involved, or don’t make it to the other side at all. That’s why ‘chicken caesar salad’ is so good: the three words fall neatly into place, giving that pleasing sensation when you reach the end.
I hate the snobbery that surrounds puns, the way they’re seen as second-rate language
I probably admire puns so much because I can never think of them myself. This doesn’t matter for the kind of stuff I write (you’ll note I’m not even attempting any puns in this piece), though I often play the game of trying to think of headlines for my pieces. I never can. The only one I’ve ever suggested that The Spectator went for was on my piece about hating Agas: ‘Aga can’t.’
Curiously, my friends who are good at puns can be dismissive of their skill. John Sturgis (of this manor and an ex-tabloid journalist who earned a reputation as king of the headline) has even told me he sometimes sees his compulsion as a curse. But there’s pride when he comes up with a true winner (it was John who fathered ‘don’t cue want me baby’). ‘It’s like playing a fruit machine,’ he says, ‘where the identifiable aspects of the story are the columns and you want them to align in a meaningful or recognisable phrase.’ He reminisces about legendary headlines: ‘Sometimes it’ll be on a massive story – like George Michael cottaging, “Zip Me Up Before You Go Go” – but I prefer an outstanding pun on a story that gets forgotten. For instance when Eminem discovered he was descended from a medieval Welsh prince I did “The Rhyl Slim Shady” for the Sun. That still does the rounds.’
Probably the most famous British headline ever was about a Scottish FA Cup upset: ‘Super Caley Go Ballistic, Celtic Are Atrocious’. Across the pond, people still talk about the New York Post’s ‘Headless Body in Topless Bar’. I’ve always had a soft spot for the one about a certain pop star falling off her horse (‘Ze Fallen Madonna With Ze Big Bruises’) and for the one about Gianni Versace’s murder (‘Shoot You Sir’).
Another puntastic Spectator writer is Patrick Kidd. ‘Wordplay is very much an English thing,’ he says. ‘Parody, humorous songs, cryptic crosswords – they all rely on verbal dexterity and twists on familiar words. It’s part of us showing how clever we are, but also how clever we think our audience is to get them.’ His career shows that puns aren’t confined to headlines. ‘On a cricket tour in India, when England were playing in the home town of a famous cricketer the week before Christmas, I began my piece with: “Once in Rahul Dravid’s city…”’
I know from experience (usually in pubs) that Patrick, like John, can think of a pun in a millisecond. But (and Barry Cryer was the same) it’s never annoying, never showey-offey. It’s something that comes naturally to them – and the results are magnificent to behold.
And now, inevitably, I can’t think of a pun with which to end this piece. ‘When all’s said and pun’? ‘Pun and dusted’? Not good enough. So, I’ll leave you with another tweet from Master Sturgis, concerning a recent story about football fans fighting over pies at half-time. John responded with ‘Affray Bentos’. It got 500,000 views.
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