Never Let The Truth Get In The Way Of A Good Story

Dear Mum,

“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

You, circa 1999

You shared this motto with me when I was around nine or ten, after I listened to you telling a family friend a story about something I had done, the two of you cackling like hyenas. “That’s not what happened!” I cried, confused about the blatant truth-twisting I was hearing. “Well, close enough,” you responded.

I suppose you're not an investigative journalist, required to be scrupulously honest in reporting the details of a situation. I wouldn't call you a liar either – I often feel the phrase ‘brutally honest’ was created just for you. You are, however, a storyteller. A great storyteller, and funny with it too. And if an event has to be somewhat embellished or the facts slightly bent to make that story better, so be it.

You come from a family of boisterous, comical characters. Stories from your life before marriage genuinely sound like a comedy series: a hilarious, eccentric father; exasperated, witty mother; sassy older sister; infuriating middle child constantly getting into scrapes and breaking windows; and cheeky, sneaky baby of the family who could get away with anything, all set in a small Yorkshire town with various zany relatives and friends popping in and out.

Family get-togethers have always involved a lot of telling stories, making fun of past embarrassments and, most of all, laughing. When we saw your brother just after my cousin was accepted into the police, we joked about the irony of his son joining the same branch that rejected him 30 years ago because he ruined his knee by falling off a roof. (He’s the aforementioned middle child, of course.)

And that is one of the most important lessons you taught me: how to laugh. Growing up in this family, I had to develop a thick skin. There was no room for embarrassment, no room for shame, no room for offence – I would be teased and the story would be repeated regardless, so I’d better get used to laughing it off. Learning to join in and to make people laugh with you, not at you, really takes the sting out of any potentially mortifying moment.

Being mocked and made fun of at home also means that I can really hold my own outside of it. A lot of British humour is self-deprecating and, frankly, a lot of British relationships are based on affectionate ribbing. It’s better to accept this and join in with it early, and then people tend to like you more. If you can give it back, even better. As the popular saying over here goes: don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.

You taught me not to take life, or myself, too seriously, a lesson which was invaluable to me. When I was a kid, I was shy, quiet and introverted, perpetually afraid of doing something stupid or embarrassing. Sometimes I even flinched when I heard people laughing, convinced I was the butt of the joke. Over the years, you taught me that being laughed at was not the worst thing that could happen, and eventually I stopped caring completely. Life is a lot easier when you can laugh at anything, including yourself, and I truly believe this had a huge impact on developing strong mental health and resilience.

A few years ago, I went on holiday with a friend and we signed up for snorkelling. We woke up to see the tail end of a fierce storm, and were surprised to be told that the trip was still on. We shrugged and boarded the small boat alongside a dozen German tourists. The further we got out to sea, the worse the weather became. We basically headed straight into the storm. Just as the waves were at their highest, the motor broke, and there we were, bobbing up and down on the ferocious ocean, the rain lashing us so hard our skin was stinging.

The Germans began crying and hugging each other. The grandma even started praying. My friend and I told jokes and played games. At one point I asked her, “Which one of the Germans shall we eat first?” The grandma must have spoken some English, because she stared at me for a moment before translating what I’d said to the rest of the group. After a nervous heartbeat, the whole boat burst into laughter, and for a while we forgot that we might die.

That is the power of humour, and through it I see your influence on my life. I was a solemn and serious child, but over the years your sparkle and wit softened and lightened me, and made me into the person I am today. Just like you, I love to laugh, make jokes and tell stories. Just like you, I don’t take myself too seriously. Just like you, I can happily recount my embarrassing moments to entertain others, and I can find the light in the darkest of times.

Humour can be a powerful weapon. It can also be a powerful bonding mechanism. It can break the tension, and it can relieve stress. It can bring people closer together, and it can bring back the people who are no longer with us. It can make our day brighter, and it can help us find a smile in sad times. So I’m thankful to you, Mum, for the gift of humour, and I feel so lucky to have spent the pandemic living and laughing with you. When the country was in lockdown, as a nurse you were the only one still allowed out. We relied on you to keep us smiling and keep us connected with the outside world through your work stories. We just had to remember to take them with a pinch of salt.

I can confirm that everything written above is actually the truth, even the snorkelling story. In case you were wondering, the boat guy (I hesitate to call him a captain) called a mate who picked us up before we had to start eating any German tourists.