In A Funk

Writing my way out of a funk.

I’ve recently read an interview with Lee Child, the alter ego of Jack Reacher – who according to Lee’s publicist is ‘just what we need for these troubled times’. Lee was describing how when he writes a novel he undertakes no planning but just starts writing and goes where it takes him. Given that Lee’s novels sell faster than a bullet into a bad guy’s forehead, I figured I’d give this a go.

I’m in a bit of funk. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing to really complain about. I have my health, work is busy, and now that the dog is dead, I have no constraints nipping at my heels. So why the funk? Middle-aged boredom? Possibly. Nine years ago I turned 50 and it did come as a bit of shock. I think it was that realisation that somewhere back there I had peaked. If only I’d known. Now at fifty-nine, I’m sliding potbellied first into my sixties towards impending retirement where happiness will greet me in the form of a weekly government handout and Epicurus’s freedom from “the prison of everyday affairs and politics.” While this sounds bloody marvellous, I’ve still got five years to get there, which is becoming a bit of a psychological struggle – hence the funk. You see, and this is the bit that the young and the energetic don’t understand, I’m tired of fighting. Yes, that’s right, fighting at work. Every day, I seem to have to battle somebody about something. The wheels of ignorance and stupidity surround me like ducks onto a sandwich wielding toddler. Why are we still having to fight to prevent street trees from being felled because they drop leaves? Why are the poor still poor? Why is it still all about cars?

Now of course as a middle-aged white man, I have no right to complain about anything. All the world’s problems are my fault and if I was young and non-white I would truly have something to complain about. As a reader of the Guardian, I am exposed daily to criticisms of my age, gender, ethnicity and general privilege, and according to the liberal elite, the embodiment of my type is none other than Jeremy Clarkson. Irreverence is no longer funny, he is now just offensive – an old man who doesn’t get it. When he is hamming it up with his similarly white TV comrades, the banter is now deemed un-woke. Gay innuendo just isn’t funny anymore? 

However, despite my lefty sensibilities, I find Messers Clarkson, May and Hammond’s banter pretty funny – it’s surprisingly similar to the banter I undertake with my lily-white friends.

This got me thinking.

I wonder what other groups of friends talk about? Do groups of young women also joke about sex and laugh at matters of utmost seriousness? Do a group of gay men talk about technology and sport? Do old people only talk about operations and their Hondas. To find out, I thought I would do a bit of eavesdropping. A kind of social experiment to see if middle-aged white male banter was something akin to a dinosaur’s bollocks (there we go again with the sexual reference – we just can’t help ourselves). 

Armed with a hearing aid and a big print novel, I decided to hit a few cafés and engage in a bit of fake reading close to my target research groups. 

My first encounter was a group of young men who were dressed as they have just been released from prep school. Chinos, long-sleeved baby blue shirt, leather shoes smarter than an Italian waiter, and all with newly minted haircuts.

My second group were a group of older women. More grey hair than a Sound of Music Matinée, well-worn trainers and anoraks for all. Cell phones with text size set to max were placed on the table where they could be seen and heard by their bewildered owners.

My third and last group (I do have a real job) was a group of young women out on what looked like a girl’s night. Tight-fitting silk dresses shorter than their mothers’ approval, drag queen blush, and phones at sparkling fingertips.

After I eavesdropped, I came to two conclusions. 

Firstly, when a group of friends get together, no matter their race, colour, religion, national origin, citizenship status, sex, gender, gender identity or expression, pregnancy, sexual orientation, age, or disability, they predominantly talk crap. This is I guess unsurprising, as that’s why friends get together.

The second noteworthy phenomenon was that in each group, and I find this is true of my friends, there is always at least one person who sees the funny side of every part of life no matter its seriousness. A group can be having a deep and meaningful discussion about death and misery and someone in the group will chip in with a dose of wit and hilarity. What I call the ‘comedian of Auschwitz’ syndrome. You can’t tell me that if Jerry Seinfeld or Jon Stewart were in a concentration camp they could refrain from a wisecrack even though their plight was no laughing matter.

So despite our differences, it’s my conclusion that people are the same all over. Looking back it’s clear that nothing and everything matters, and looking forward I now see the same. 

Hey, I feel better now – it worked!

Richard Alexander Bain
self confessed writer of wrongs