Sunday, 23 February 2014

Laurel and Hardy


I’m not somebody who sits and watches television.  During the day I’m working.  In the evening, I write.  And somewhere in between, I look after my family.  I catch glimpses of television when, say, cooking dinner in our open plan kitchen and Mr V is watching football.  I can tell you the cast of Manchester United, but not of Coronation Street.  I catch glimpses of reality programmes when I venture into my daughter’s bedroom to pick up a mountain of clothes and clean.  I see snippets of programmes about fat people who want to be thinner, and thin people who want to be fatter; or people who have inked almost every part of their skin and are now begging for laser removal treatment.  But it’s all very fragmented.  This is probably why I love a good film.
          When Saturday night rolls around, and it’s time to relax, there’s nothing better than to be seated at the local cinema, popcorn in hand while you watch the latest heartthrob chasing baddies, or Jennifer Aniston in a funny chick flick.  Although we don’t see too many of her films as Mr V prefers Cameron Diaz.  Our taste in films is not usually one that is mutual.  Generally he prefers films like Saw.  And Saw 2, and Saw 3, and Saw 4…you get the picture (no pun intended).  I watched the first one and was so disturbed that the first thing I did when I got home was to search the inside of every wardrobe and under every bed for hidden lunatics.
          Nor am I a great fan of alien moves.  Unless you count ET.  Mr V persuaded me to watch ‘The Fourth Kind’.  For weeks afterwards I was a nervous wreck at bedtime, convinced that an alien would creep into the house the moment we were all asleep.
          Give me something silly and farcical to watch and I’m in my element.  Which is why I was surprised when Mr V said he liked Laurel and Hardy.  How can you be married to somebody for years and years and then discover, quite by chance, that you like their films?!  We watched ‘Pardon Me.’  What a pleasure to watch.  Not a single swear word in order to raise a laugh (I’m still puzzled why today’s comedians and film directors think swearing is funny) and absolutely no political correctness nonsense either.  When the lads escaped from prison and hid with the cotton pickers and blacked themselves up to blend in, I’ll bet nobody shrieked about being offended.  It was innocent and incredibly funny.  I can’t remember the last time I laughed at a film until my stomach
ached.

 

Desk Sergeant:      What's your name?
Stanley:                 Stanley Laurel.
Desk Sergeant:      Say “Sir" when you're addressing me. Now what's your name?
Stanley:                 Sir Stanley Laurel.


And from another:

 

OLLIE:       What did she say?
STAN:         She said we can't go out tonight, that we have to go right home.
OLLIE:       Why?
STAN:         ’Cause she's got a surprise for you.

OLLIE:       What else did she say?
STAN:         She told me not to tell you she had a surprise.
OLLIE:       Well don't tell me.
STAN:         I won't, I can keep a secret.

 

Which is more than I can.  Which reminds me.  Did you hear about the butter’s secret?  No, no, I mustn’t tell you, in case it spreads… 

 

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