This is a short one, because my eyeballs have assumed the role of a slot machine, periodically rolling back into my head expecting to toss out a matching pair of cherries. I can’t seem to stay awake past 9.30 most nights. So, it being close to midnight means that I’m on the cusp of delirium.
Anyhoo. I’m here to confess. I saw something recently. Something that last year, I would have found offensive or alien. This year – just last week, in fact – I laughed out loud at this thing. It was a joke about drinking. Several jokes, in fact. Each one almost funnier than the other.
Understand this. When it comes to laughing at drinking, I am the last person to get the joke. Instead I feel somehow demeaned. Demeaned and excluded. And angry. By which I mean boiling with outrage. Incandescent with indignation. In other words, deeply hacked off.
So, what’s changed? Honestly? I don’t know. I still gag at the smell of beer and wine. I still steer clear of pubs. I’m still scornful of the grotesquely large proportion of popular culture that revolves around drinking alcohol and getting drunk. But somewhere along the way, my sense of humour has had a minor re-boot.
And what was it that breached the barriers – that made me titter like a school child?