FUNNY thing, humour. It’s a cliché, but perhaps a worthy one. Why do some find Monty Python, for example, uproariously funny while others “just don’t get it”.

The July 10 meeting of the Airedale Writers’ Circle resounded to laughter as we examined humour.

Marriott Edgar (1880-1951) is not a well-known name now, though his The Lion and Albert is still fondly remembered by many. He wrote another 15 monologues, all in rhyming verse, including Three Ha’pence a Foot, excerpts from which we read out loud, about Noah’s attempts to buy wood for his Ark from timber merchant Sam, but failing to do so as they could not agree on a price.

The humour derives in part from understatements, such as “moist” for “almost drowning”, and demonstates too how much funnier rhyming verse can be than bald statements of prose.

Edgar enjoyed making people laugh but Richmal Crompton (1890 – 1969) grew to regret that her well-loved 38 Just William stories overshadowed her 41 (yes, 41!) novels for adults and nine collections of short stories. In 1958 she said: “For many years I looked on William as ‘my character’. He was my puppet. I pulled the strings. Buit gradually the tables have been turned. I am now his puppet.”

Then consider textbooks. Just that word can prompt a shudder at the memories of occasional/frequent (delete as applicable!) boredom and terror, but humour can be found in some. A chapter on alcohol in DR Laurence’s Clinical Pharmacology includes a humorous poem featuring the recurring line “I’m not so think as you drunk I am”.

Members then recited some of their favourite amusing quotes.

The necessary paring down of extraneous words in telegrams can result in marvellously pithy repartee, such as the one from George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill that read “Two tickets reserved for you, first night Pygmalion. Bring a friend. If you have one”, to which the reply was “Cannot make first night. Will come to second. If you have one.”

Inventive descriptions can prompt a chuckle, for example the masterly wordsmith Clive James on Barbara Cartland’s make-up: “Twin miracles of mascara, her eyes looked like the corpses of two crows that had crashed into a chalk cliff.”

We then heard Pam Ayres’ comic Oh, I wished I’d looked after me teeth and read Survivor, one of Roger McGough’s wry short poems, before hearing an extract from Going Solo, Roald Dahl’s hilarious account of the highly-eccentric British Empire expats he met in the Second World War in Africa.

Our next meeting is on September 11, as ever at 7.30pm in the Sight Airedale building in Scott Street, immediately behind Keighley Library. Renowned poetry lecturer and writer Alison Chisholm will advise us on composing winning verse. All are welcome.