Accidental sass

It’s one thing trying to be funny and failing. Some of my friends will testify in a brutally honest way that this happens far too often. You know who you are. ;)

Then there’s trying to be taken seriously and ending up being funny. This is the main source of my humour – and it generally stems from my innate awkwardness. My life reads like a slapstick comedy…

But there is another rare phenomenon that people tend to forget. This phenomenon is called… accidental sass.

This is when you mean to be completely sincere and serious and it ends up being so sarcastic and sassy that things get hysterical very very quickly.

For instance, when I was in my last year of primary school, my teacher was showing round a high up teacher from the local comprehensive. I was one of the only ones who wasn’t going – so just my luck…

My teacher came round and said something along the lines of, “This is Joseph. He likes books.” and all of a sudden this guy was waffling about how beautiful the library was at his school, and how there were enough novels to fill a classroom, and on and on for a minute, before my teacher said, “He’s not going.”

The guy laughed it off, but then in an attempt to salvage his dignity, he said, “Would you go if I paid you?”

This is one of those questions were there is no right answer. If I had said yes, what did that say about me? That I was willing to take a bribe? I should have answered, “Maybe.”, but the thought didn’t even occur to me.

So I said no.

The man started laughing. So did my teacher.

“Hahaha… haha…” I said, although I had no idea why I was meant to be laughing.

“He has a funny sense of humour.” my teacher said, and dragged the ambassador away before I could mess things up any further.

I stood there for a moment, bemused at what had happened. And then it hit me. I had basically said, “I wouldn’t go to your school even if you paid me.”. I probably came across as Sherlock or something.

There’s another incident I can remember. One of my classmates had forgotten his PE shorts and needed some spare. When he asked me if he could borrow mine, I paused, and then said quite sincerely, “Only if you wear underpants underneath.”

Why do I post this now? Because this happened again, recently… but that’s a story for another time. Or never. :P


P.S. The revision is going OK. I’m doing a lot more than last year, but I seem to be scraping through. I’m not sure how my past self managed to blog so often. :P

Father’s Day (in a family of six)

“How many did I do?” my dad asked at the end of a one minute skipping session that my second youngest sister had been timing.

“20, but if you count the ones were you just put one foot over the skipping rope at a time, you had 25. Do you want me to count those?”

Trust me, it’s funnier when it happens in real life. Especially as it happened on Father’s Day.


We would wake him up with flowers and a breakfast in bed – but we needed everyone. The oldest sister of three was in the toilet, and the youngest sister was pestering her to get out quickly. We handed her a flower we had picked from the garden, and she got behind me. We were in a line from oldest to youngest, with Mum at the rear and ‘youngest sister’ at the front. She and ‘second youngest sister’ knocked on the door, and when they got no reply, knocked again.

My mum told them to just go in, so they theatrically opened the door, an awkward procession that woke my dad up groggily. We gave him the flowers first, with ‘youngest sister’ screeching, “TAKE IT!” and us telling her to calm down. Dad grinned, and invited us to join him.

‘Second youngest sister’ took him too literally, and half belly-flopped onto the bed, making the tea in the breakfast tray spill.

My mum quickly said she would get a tissue, but Dad declined, saying the soggy bacon (and honey) toast would remind him of the fun we have. Or something along those lines.

We still haven’t given him the cards.


(Happy Father’s Day).