The Armour of Humour

When I was a young teenager at school, the other boys made a joke book.  It contained all the jokes I made.  There was only one problem with that.

It wasn’t a compliment.

I learnt how to joke off my parents.  My parents were old, clean, christian types, who made the sort of obvious humour people now call “dad jokes”.

I followed in their footsteps.  Closely.

Any time an opportunity arose, I would pop in my one liners.  Unsurprising, unwitty, obvious humour that no one laughed at.

It was a cry for attention and for love.  I wanted friendship.  I desperately wanted someone, anyone, to like me.  I thought that if I could make people laugh, people would want to be my friend.

I watched the other boys.  The bullies, the smart kids, even the dumb kids, they all seemed to have  a wit that I did not.  I saw them make lightning fast observations that were so far out of left field that i had no idea how to even start making those sort of connections.

So I continued with my dad jokes.  And that’s when the other boys started their joke book.  Writing down each and every stupid line I said.


Fast forward twenty years.  

I am now a reasonably witty fellow. After my painful joke-destroying childhood, I made a point of studying humour and finding what makes something funny.  I now know what is funny and what is not, and I know the value of timing and other keys to humour.

But I’ve now started to ask myself the question: why do I try so hard to be funny so often?  It’s actually a deeply ingrained habit of which I’m only now starting to understand the full extent.  It’s quite a dopamine hit to get people laughing.  But at what cost?

What am I trying to get when I go for laughs?  What kind of person am I trying to be?

Am I trying to make friends?  (Most of the time I AM with friends… so what gives?)

Trying to impress people with my smarts?

Am I trying to prevent awkwardness and keep conversation going?

Do I find it difficult to just sit in silence for a minute or two?

Is humour my way of ascending the hierarchy?

Do I use jokes to cover up pain when it comes up in conversation?


Humour is Armour.

Humour guards.  Humour prevents real connection.  Humour puts up a false front that betrays our pain, our warmth and our generosity.

And men today can barely get by without it.

In the circles I run, I make it a point to deny men the use of humour.  Now, there’s nothing better than having a good laugh.  But too often men make jokes to disguise what is meaningful to them.  They will say the deepest thing they’ve ever said, then pass it off as a joke.  They will demean their deepest feelings with a one liner about being emotional.

Jokes show others that the real and the painful don’t faze us.

Even when they do.

It’s already a difficult task to talk about what is real and painful.  But to actively make fun of oneself?  Self-deprecation can be light-hearted and funny, but in these cases it becomes a razor sharp dagger to one’s own guts.  It’s a useless addition to conversation when reality is ignored because of it.


The Razor’s Edge

Standing with my emotions, or standing with someone else as they feel something deeply, is a task filled with tension.  It is standing on a razors edge.  On one side is the fall into emotion and deep feeling and being swept away by that.  On the other is a light-hearted step into a bright meadow of sunshine and unicorns where we can pretend that real shit doesn’t happen and real feeling doesn’t occur.  This is the side that humour takes us.  It only takes one line to destroy a moment of deep feeling.  But that deep feeling… that is where life is.

We want to be able to walk that razor’s edge, and see our feelings and emotions as they are: strong and powerful forces within us that enable us to live our lives fully and with passion.

We may find that we start feeling more and more deeply without the handrail of humour to bolster us.  We may be able to stand more tension, and be able to support others during their times of struggle.

Those of us who feel like life is boring and meaningless find that our emotional lives revolve only around anger, fear and mild happiness.  Rejecting humour as a defence is one way to actively embrace the deeper parts of your existence, and the feelings that come with it, like contempt, joy, satisfaction and sorrow.  These are scary things to face, but they are man’s lot.

Your lot.

Smacking Kids: Province of the Unimaginative

I am far from a perfect father.  I have smacked my boys in the past.  I can probably count on two hands the amount of times it’s happened.

Once my eldest almost stepped in front of a car when he was about two.  Scared the shit out of me, and before I knew it I’d popped him on the ass and got in his face yelling.

Another time the other one screamed in my face during a tantrum. I had a startle response and slapped him.  Kinda funny in hindsight.  A five year old startling me so bad I saw him as a bad guy…

My boys have provoked each other so much over so long a period and after so many verbal interjections that I gave them both a pat on the bum.  That surprised them so much they stopped.


Why do we hit our kids?

Because they don’t do what we ask.

Because they are cheeky, rude, impertinent or insolent.

Because they do something that scares us or could get them hurt.

None of these are good reasons.  Maybe the last one could be justified from a conditioning point of view.  That is, a pain memory is a good thing to have when about to cross a road.  But other than that, all the other times have been happened from a lack of imagination and an inability to control and calm myself.


Many old-school men will say “I got hit and turned out okay!”

Well, did you turn out ok?

Do you have a healthy respect for authority, able to both follow it and question it when necessary?

Do you have an open and loving relationship with your parents?

Do you bottle up your emotions?  Are rage and anger the only emotions you feel?

Do you imagine or fantasise about inflicting or receiving violence?

If you are experiencing the negative in these questions… you didn’t turn out ok.


Why is it so important to not hit our kids?

Kids exposed to physical violence are more likely to either a) be a bully, or b) be bullied.  Bullies develop a physical armouring to pain that destroys empathy and allows them to inflict pain. The bullied develop a deep fear of and deference to authority no matter the consequences, from which they cannot stand up for themselves.  Oftentimes they also prey on the weak, as this gives them a sense of the power their discipliner feels. I was in this last category.

Kids rarely understand context.  One thing that was confusing to me as a child was that the rules often seemed to change.  I often didn’t know what I was getting belted for, despite the little “talks” before and after the punishment.  This confusion followed through into my idea of the world.  People’s motivations and actions became mystical, with no rhyme or reason apparent to me.

Violence destroys self-confidence and esteem.  If your body is someone else’s to control, manipulate and hurt, there is no possibility for confidence or self-esteem.  The humiliation and embarrassment that comes with being hit sits deep within the soul.

Violence destroys trust.  If you have hit your kids, you’ll understand the wariness that ensues.  You have essentially said “I am prepared to hurt you to get what I want.”  We frown upon this behaviour in the children themselves, but somehow allow it in adult-to-child relationships.

Violence creates shame.  Violence tells children that their bodies are ours to do with what we like.

And finally, violence is the fucking easy way out.  It is unimaginative.  It is what we use when we can’t think of anything else to do.  Violence is what we use when we’ve decided that we are not prepared to go the extra mile and find a verbal or physical solution that works.

And there is always a solution.


It may take time, and repeated attempts to communicate it, and it might take an elephant’s portion of resolve to stick with it, but there is an alternative to violence every single time.  It just takes imagination.

My parents believed “spare the rod and spoil the child”, so they were not shy about violence for small infractions.  Children of these parents can be picked by their high shoulders and rapid glances to their parents when out of their comfort zone.  The high shoulders come from the“turtle-shell” response to frequent threats or slaps, and the rapid glances are to see if mum and dad approve, or “am I gonna get hit for this?”

Are these the traits you want your child carrying with them into adulthood?  Do you think these traits lead to healthy communities and societies?

Let’s go back to the reasons we hit our kids from the top:

Because they don’t do what we ask.

How do you want your child to be when they are adults?  Do you want them to do everything that’s asked of them, without question?

Question your own assumptions about your child, and your role as a parent.  You are there to guide, not force, your child.  Your child is not yours to control for the length of his stay with you. He is there to learn and be guided by you.

Sure as hell it’s frustrating when little Johnny doesn’t eat his oats, but that’s his choice as a person.  He is a person, despite him being one, or five, or ten.  We encourage as much correct behaviour as much as we can, and we don’t tolerate intolerable behaviour, but we don’t need to hit.

Because they are cheeky, rude, impertinent or insolent.  

Again, how do you want your child to be when they are older?  Often curiosity, or plain simple wanting to know reasons for actions are mistaken for cheekiness or impertinence.  If we don’t provide good reasoning for our requirements, kids get frustrated.  And wouldn’t you?  For some reason we expect different behaviour from kids them we do from ourselves.

If they are really being cheeky, rude, impertinent or insolent, perhaps you haven’t earned their respect.  

And you need to earn it.

You don’t just get it because you’re their dad.  You need to walk the talk.

If you are not present, if you are at the pub 5 nights a week instead of at home for dinner, if you spend no time with your kids except for disciplinary actions, you are going to have respect issues.  Your child is probably in pain because you are not displaying your love for them.  And buying toys is NOT displaying love.  Kids see through these transparent fakes.  They know what you are doing, and they hate it.

“But I respected my father, and he was the same!”

You feared your father.  That’s not the same as respect.  Respect is the feeling you get when someone behaves in the appropriate manner towards you, whether it’s tough, loving or anything else.  Violence is almost always inappropriate.

Because they do something that scares us or could get them hurt.  

To be honest, this is a tough one.

A short, sharp smack is much better than a car accident.  The heat of the moment can do crazy things to us parents.

However, the best actions are always those that come from a place of calm, clear thought.  Take a deep breath, and take the next step.


What sort of adult do you want your child to be?

I’ve written in the past about looking forward to what sort of children you want to create.  Because despite genetics and personality, a HUGE portion of character comes from those first ten years in your house.  You are creating a person with your actions.  How do want that person to be?

Confident? Or wary?

Proud?  Or shameful?

Strong? Or weak?

Intelligent?  Or stupid?

Able to think and ask questions and wonder about the world?  Or only able to take what other people have said as gospel?

These are the traits that YOU are building through your actions with your child.

Beatings from my Dad; or The Difference Between Middle and Lower Class Violence

Only a few moments before the four of us had been cheerily chatting.  Now, the room was heavy with unsaid words, with the weight of a dam about to burst upon us.


The word hung in the air, waiting.  I knew what was to come.  I, too, had suffered as they were suffering.  My brother and sisters had thirty years of pain upon their shoulders, with no apparent way out.

The sadness in the room was palpable.  They felt betrayed and angry.

We all felt the years of beatings and hypocritical Christian belief that had been physically and mentally torturous.  We all had the memory of listening to the screams of one of us getting struck by the plastic pipe.

Jessica always got the worst.  She would struggle with Dad holding one of her skinny arms, wriggling her tiny little body away from the strikes, which only made him angrier and hit harder.

And yet this pain was melded with a twisted version of love.  We had always to embrace him after, while he reminded us that the beatings hurt him more than it hurt us.  We started to side with him in a twisted Stockholm Syndrome spiral.  We would apologise for his behaviour in our own heads and to other people.  We loved him fiercely, and would defend him to our friends.

And these apologies still remained.  Even after all these years, we were still apologising for him, to ourselves.  We still kept the pain to ourselves, without telling him how much it had damaged us, how horrifying it had been.  To not have any escape, no control, no recourse.

I remember as a child watching a current affairs episode about abused kids being reunited with their families after some sort of counselling or mediation.  There were tears and apologies and it was beautiful.  I had commented on how nice it would be to be one of those kids, and experience that unification, with the (now obvious) subconscious need to have that for myself.

“You don’t want to be one of them mate,” said Dad.  “As soon as the cameras go, it all starts again.”  He had no idea of the need behind my comment, nor the irony of his dismissal.

Both Mum and Dad both saw what they did as normal.  We were living a normal life.  Not only that, we actively looked down on other families that were more traditionally abusive.  That is, they got beaten just cos their Dad or Mum was angry.  Lower class beatings were just that, lower class.

My best friend at the time lived in a Housing Commission home.  His mum was poorer than us, and had a string of boyfriends, most of whom were fuckwits, and had no problem belting my friend.  Of course, my parents made it clear that we were above them.  Thinking about it now it’s hard for me to see the distinction between middle class and lower class violence.  I guess the thinking was that violence of the Christian god was reasonable and goal-oriented, and used a plastic pipe.  The violence of the alcoholic gutter-rat was anger-driven and spontaneous, and fists were used instead.  One came from “love” the other from rage.

I had spent five years unable to speak to my dad, and he had no idea why.  I had spent years more in surface conversation, with my resentment bubbling close to the top.  The time since then had softened me somewhat, and we were then able to connect, but there was still a wall of hate between myself and that man.

Unbeknownst to my siblings in that painful room, I had found a way out.   A year before I had written to my Dad, expressing the pain I felt, the pain he had caused me.  I ripped the scab off the wound, the wound that had left me with countless sleepless nights dreaming of pain and tears, and vengeance.

I again laid awake for many nights, wondering if I had done the right thing.  I remembered back to a therapy session where the therapist had mentioned writing to my Dad to express my pain.  I had replied that it would be impossible, and no good would come of it.  My father wouldn’t care.

And yet here I was, years later.  I had done it.  The time had been ripe.

I opened his reply a week later.  The first two words made me stop in my tracks.

“I’m sorry.”

My world stopped.

I couldn’t believe it.

The rest of the letter didn’t matter.  With those two words all that pain ceased to exist.  All that resentment that hindered our chats ceased to exist.  My sleepless nights ceased to exist.

And when I sat in that room with my brother and sisters, I found my ability to share their hate…

…had ceased to exist.

A Day On The Job – or, Why White Collar Guys Have Thin Skin

It may be surprising to many people how kind and, let’s say it, loving, many men are to their fellow men.  But what seems impossible to most people to realise is that you’ll find it most in the blue collar sector.

I’ve spent time in the field and in the office.  And what I found is that beneath the rough exterior of the men who work outdoors lie hearts that care deeply for the men around them, and their families at home.

Except for the clean shirts, this is how it is. Power stances. All day.
Except for the clean shirts, this is how it is. Power stances. All day.


Here’s a short excerpt from a day I recently spent at work.

As I walk into the Meal Room, the boys are hacking on Jayjay.  He’s just found out that he needs to get a colonoscopy in two days, and, besides taking laxatives, he’ll have to starve all day tomorrow.

“Might have a BBQ at work tomorrow, eh boys?  Oh, sorry Jay… can’t you eat!?!”

“Jeez mate, you’ll be clenching your buttcheeks… don’t let anything leak!”

What is absolutely clear is that all the guys like Jayjay.  They are stirring him up.  The goal is humour, having fun, taking our minds off the days of work ahead.  We are all working together to lighten the mood, everyone trying to get the biggest laugh.

This is what the left does not understand.  This is why the left has no place in the blue collar environment, except for the union movement.  This language would be incredibly offensive to any leftist, office worker or even most women who have not seen it before.

And this, this camaraderie, is what HR departments all around the world are trying to stamp out.

HR departments want to ensure diversity, tolerance and acceptance.  This means no harassment, bullying or offensive statements.  However, part of these definitions state that it’s not just the person being “harrassed” that can file a complaint.  Anyone who observes “harrassing” or “bullying” behaviour and finds it offensive can drag the offender to HR.

This effectively renders the statements made in the Meal Room a sackable offence, regardless of the context, the humour, and the fact that the man at the centre was taking it all with grace and good spirits.  Thankfully the guys ignore this brutal fact.

The good humour continues at lunchtime.  Everyone brings their fold-up chairs to the grass where we sit and forms a circle.  Some of the guys are late to lunch, and as they set up their chairs outside of the the circle, the men within the circle get up and move their own chairs to include everyone into the group.

A group of twenty men self-organise, without a word, into an inclusive circle, despite slinging curses at each other all day.  This is not unusual.  This is manly behaviour.

Office workers don’t see it because they have been emasculated by the proximity of the HR department.  Without working in a purely male environment, the men in an office never experience the depth of male relationships a man outdoors does, unless he can find like-minded men outside work.  The office men take all comments personally, because that’s what the women around them do.

All day every day men working in the outdoors, doing hard, physical labour, tease each other.  They bag out on every man’s weak points. His sensitivities.  His weight, his race, his disabilities, his wife, his car.

They call each other fat, weak, black, lazy.  Their most obvious and damning traits are held out for the world to see, and ridiculed.  No-one gets offended. In fact, if you are not getting teased, there’s a good chance that you are disliked.

The men feel each other out for stability, for toughness, for the ability to give as good as he gets.  The men who can take and give are men worth working next to.

Later in the day, I notice Jayjay chatting with one of his crew.  Jayjay is saying he’s worried.  Their conversation is serious.  His crew mate was teasing him this morning.  But there is no teasing now.  There are low voices, compassion, offers of help.  Jayjay is supported and he knows it.  The teasing is a form of affection, which every man knows, but none would admit.  And I would guess that Jayjay actually appreciates it on some level.

He understands that when it comes to offensive language, context is everything.

The Only Excuse For Mediocrity

I am mediocre.  In my own mind.  To many of my friends, I am awesome, amazing, strong, fit, multi-talented.  To myself I am average, more unskilled than skilled, just a guy doing his thing, trying to get better.

My goal however, is excellence.

Perhaps that is what separates me from the crowd.  I desire more, and am willing to do better for that.

Steve Jobs’ father used to build electronic cabinets.  Steve could not understand why he put so much effort into making the back of the cabinets so neat.

“No-one is going to see that!” he would say.

“But son, I know it’s there.”

That is the mindset of excellence.  Seeking perfection even if it won’t be appreciated by anyone else.  But to get to that state one must travel the road of mediocrity and learn along the way.

I like to build things in my shed.  I failed woodwork at school, but since I’ve found my love for building I’ve had to improve at it.  And the stuff I’ve made has been shit.  But I know it’s going to get better.  So I keep making shit, with the knowledge that I am improving every time, and soon I will be making great stuff.

The only excuse for mediocrity is to be on your way to excellence.