CSotD: Yogi McBerra meets Samuel O’Goldwyn
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I hate the oft-repeated nonsense that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day, but then I'm not so crazy about being Irish on St. Patrick's Day myself, and I am proud to be Irish the rest of the year, as long as the plastic derbies and fuzzy shamrocks remain well out of sight.
However, there is a particular type of joke known as an Irish bull, and, as I began to scan these examples in from my venerable old "A Century of Punch Cartoons" collection, it occurred to me that the best way to explain the form is to simply declare Yogi Berra an honorary Irishman.
And not just on St. Paddy's Day but all year long, though he can go back to being Italian long enough for the feast of St. Joseph on Monday.
Here's the one — from 1925 — that made me think of Yogi. Note that the cop is not Irish, though he produces a lovely Irish bull:
Policeman: Wot are yer standing 'ere for?
Loafer: Nuffink.
Policeman: Well, just move on. If everybody was to stand in one place, 'ow would the rest get past?
That's as Yogi-like as you'll ever get.
Much of the humor of the Irish bull is that, while it is logically contradictory, it still makes perfectly good sense. I note that the Wikipedia entry on the form not only cites Yogi, whom I had thought of, but Sam Goldwyn, of whom I had not. And, as much fun as people have had over the years citing Goldwyn's many Irish bulls — particularly the one about an oral contract not being worth the paper it's written on — he certainly was not a stupid man.
The humor in this 1917 cartoon is all in the language. We understand what he's saying, and those who have worked on a roof where the ladder doesn't quite reach can even feel gratitude for the warning.
Hi! Bill! Don't come down this ladder. I've took it away!
And, speaking of ladders, this next one — from 1873 — could be a jape at the work ethic of the Irishman or at his sense of proportion or his lack of ambition. And there's a bit of condescension in it, no doubt. But if there's pay to be had for mindless work, why tax the brain at all?
A CONTINTED MIND
Tirence (Bricklayer's Laborer, acclimatized, to Paddy, just in from Cork): Sell your pig an' fournichure an' come over wid Biddy to this blessid country. I get tree an' t'rpence a day for carr'in' bricks up a ladder, an', be jabers, there's a poor divil up at the top doin' all the work for me!
I suppose there was a message being given to a readership that knew how far three and thrupence went in those days, but In my brief time in the food industry, I discovered that I hated the assembly work of making pizza but really enjoyed working the grill. I'm with Terrence on this one: Find what you like and don't worry about what someone else is doing.
Condescending as it may be, there is a bit of affection here. Even with the assumption of sub-working class status, there's not the contempt that Thomas Nast was pouring on the Irish in the same period.
It's more gentle, less intentionally offensive. Still, the generic use of "Paddy" puts me in mind of the story of the fellow driving down the road who sees a man working in a ditch at the side and stops.
"Hey, Paddy!" he says, "Can you tell me the way to Birmingham?"
"How did you know my name was Paddy?" asks the workman.
"I just guessed."
"Well, then, you can just guess the way to Birmingham."
The Irish love a bit of verbal jiu-jitsu. The great Dan O'Connell was in court one day when his learned opponent said something about a "false fact."
"There was never such a thing as a 'false fact,'" the Liberator grumbled from his seat, at which point opposing counsel whirled and declared, "There are false facts and there are false men!"
To which O'Connell responded, "Yes. Your case, and you."
Which brings us to this humble-but-not-to-be-put-upon cobbler from 1925:
Cobbler (to customer who wants his boots repaired at once): Can't do 'em till Wednesday.
Customer: But you announce "Repairs While You Wait."
Cobbler: Ay, and you'll have to wait till Wednesday.
Now, in all fairness, there's a difference between a charming interpretation of logic and being just plain bloody-minded, and it largely depends on whose boots need mending and how soon he needs them back.
I once set out from northern New York through Ontario en route to Colorado in a Jeep Wagoneer with furniture in the back, and I hadn't gotten very far before I realized that, the Jeep having no passenger-side mirror and the view out the back being blocked entirely, it would be a very long 2,000 miles that didn't allow for a safe merge to the right.
I got through the first day with the help of a hitchhiker whose English was as limited as my French but who could look out the window and tell me when it was safe to move over that way. But by London, I'd had enough and went to a Canadian Tire store that had nearly a dozen different mirrors on display, each crafted to be temporarily attached to the passenger side door with a combination of clips and straps.
So I looked at them all and chose one — let's call it "Model 10-A" — and got the boxed up mirror, paid for it and began trying to assemble it in the parking lot. But there was a gooseneck piece that was longer on one end than the other and no diagram in the box to tell which went where, so I went back to have another look.
And I couldn't find it on the wall. I went back outside and looked at the box and it was Model 10-A all right, so I put it all back in the box and brought it back in. "This says Model 10-A, but it isn't one," I told the clerk.
"Yes, it is," he said, pointing to the label which clearly said "Model 10-A."
"But it's nothing like that one," I said, pointing at the Model 10-A on the wall.
"No," he agreed. "They've changed the Model 10-A."
"Well, I don't care what you call it, that's the mirror I want," I said, pointing at the one on the wall.
"Oh, we don't sell those anymore."
"Well then can I buy that one?"
"No," he said, "I can't sell that one. We need it for the display."
"But it's not the same mirror!"
"Well, no," he responded, "but it's the same principle."
As indeed it was. They both reflected things.
I ended up exchanging it for another model which I didn't like as much as the Model 10-A in the display but which I liked more than the Model 10-A that they were actually selling. And, when another 38 years have passed, I'll probably stop grumbling over it.
Which puts me in better stead than this poor fisherman, who has been grumbling since 1871:
LATEST RAILWAY MARVEL
Gent: I say, porter, when does the next train start?
Irish Porter: The next train! Sure, the nixt train has gone tin minutes ago!"
Here's a song about the Irish working in Britain for McAlpine, one of the largest construction companies, and sending their pay back home. If this doesn't scratch the itch, you'll find a link to an hour's worth of this sort of music, which I used to play before I stopped, here.
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