Last laughs

Growing up in Glasgow I saw the word ‘Paki’ spray-painted on to the metal shutters of corner shops across the city. I was called a Paki. It was whispered, spoken and occasionally shouted, as I was pursued through the streets, running in terror from yobs. Those more attuned with the socio-geographic affairs of the Indian subcontinent would note my turban and be aware, therefore, that I am not Pakistani in origin. Actually, the jibe was all the more hurtful for its inaccuracy. In later years I was grateful for the rise of political correctness and the protection from racist and vicious language it affords. But now even I get the sneaking suspicion that things have gone too far.

As a writer and performer I have noticed a trend whereby audiences seem to stop themselves from laughing at jokes that are perfectly funny but might not be PC. On stage in Edinburgh I told a wee story about buying a pound and a half of ham from Somerfield (I’m an edgy, dark and dangerous stand-up).