I am not blowing my own horn (oo-er), but one of my books was made into the film Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging. Which was, in a word (ish), a super-duper-smasher-oonie-hit-type filmy thing. Even if I say so myself, which to be frank I have to, A LOT.
The audiences laughed, they cried – some of them even had a little accident in the piddly-diddly department. THAT is how much they loved it. Everyone loved it. Everyone. It was a true-to-life hilarious retelling of my life at 15. Who wouldn’t laugh at accidentally shaving off your own eyebrows, or going to a party as a stuffed olive? Who? Answer me that?
Well, all right – not my little sister. She said that she had never let out a fart so powerful that she had lifted off the sofa like a hovercraft. And why was it in the film? Oh, yeah, and, well, my mum, who said she didn’t have enormous nunga nungas that you could put a snack on. (But she does, actually.)
I’ll tell you who else didn’t laugh: our American friends. The ones from Hamburger-a-go-go land. The Hamburgese. The ones we are supposed to share a language with. Although to be frank any nation that misses the “i” out of “aluminium” are lazy minxes. I mean where would we be if we all just didn’t finish off words?
I’ll tell you where: up shi’ cree’ without a padd’.
I should have known they wouldn’t get it. That their “humour” is different. The alarm bells should have been ringing when they bought Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging the book, and the Chief Hamburger said, “Congratulations, Ms Rennison, you are a genius and a very warm person.” (Now that is something I do admire the Americans for, their down-to-earth sincerity…) Where was I? Oh yes, then he said, “But what is “snoggling”?”
Snoggling?
I said, “I’ve no idea but I’m willing to give it a go!”
It turned out he had next to no idea what I was talking about in the book. I had to put a glossary of words he didn’t understand in the back for the American editions. Words like “prat” (someone who plays air guitar at concerts or puts two legs down one knicker leg) etc. Common-or-garden comedy words. That everyone knows! Even the Germans. Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging was called Frontal Knutschen in German. If the Lederhosen folk can make the effort to join in “humour-wise”, why not the Hambergese?
The same old damp bucket scenario happened when I wrote It’s OK, I’m Wearing Really Big Knickers! They said, “We don’t wear knickers in America.”
And I said, “Ooooooh, you cheeky minxes, are you in the nuddy-pants underneath your skirts?”
No, they said, they wore “panties”.
I refused to have a book of mine called “It’s OK, I’m Wearing Really Big Panties” because that smacks of incontinence knickers in my mind.
Don’t even ask about And That’s When It Fell Off In My Hand. They just said, “No.
And I said, “But why, oh, why? It’s funny and hilarious.”
“Not to us! It is… erm… contrari-wise to our readership, moral-wise.”
I tried. Baby Jesus knows I tried. I said, “But what do you think fell off in my hand?”
“Er… Well, you know, the boy’s erm…”
I said, “Ooh, I see your mistake… You think that I meant a boy’s… Erm… trouser-snake addenda?”
“Er… Well, yes, correct.”
And I said, “But if a boy’s trouser snake addenda fell off in my hand, that would not be a comedy book, would it? That would be a MEDICAL book!”
But you can’t tell some people.
Look, I’ve been to Hamburger-a-go-go and there is a lot I like about it. (You know what I mean – those little TVs on bendy things that are on the side of the bath so that you can sit on the loo and watch it.)
Oh and we went to “Gaylords” (leave it), a theme-park hotel in Texas where you can have the whole Texas experience without actually going outside. Bucking bronco bar stools – the lot!
When we were in Gaylords my sister (she loves to be mentioned…) was very little and a couple of Hamburgese, dressed entirely in matching cowboy outfits, heard her saying, “I think I’ve done a little poo.”
Mrs Cowboy said, “Oh, that’s a cute accent. Whereabouts in Ireland are you from?”
Libby said, “I can sing my song.”
And before I could stop her she started the poo song:
“Poo poo, bum bum, Arsey arse arse!”
Oh good. That will impress the American nation with our culture and…
Mr and Mrs Cowboy clapped and laughed. “Oh, so cute! But what is ‘arse’? Is it an Oirish word?”
Libby started smacking her behind, which looked a bit soggy.
Mrs Cowboy thought she was cute as a button. “Oh, I see, dear, your derriere. Well, honey, do you know what we call an ‘arse’ in America? We call it a ‘fanny’. Can you say that word, dear? Fanny. Let me pat your little fanny!?” Libby incorporated the “fanny” word into her little song and sang it to a policeman at Heathrow. We were lucky to get home.
Hey, do you remember when John McEnroe was commentating at Wimbledon and rain had stopped play? The crowd had wandered off and when the match was ready to begin again John McEnroe said over the loudspeaker system, “Hey, ladies and gentlemen, get your fannies back on your seats!” And the Queen practically fainted.
But you see that is why the Hamburgese didn’t get my film. It’s not my fault. They don’t really get our language. They have their own comedy ways. They don’t see the down side of life.
Maybe it doesn’t rain as much there. I don’t know; I stopped listening in geography when we were doing the wheat belt. But you know how cheerful they can be. Always wanting you to have a nice day. Perking you up by going up at the end of sentences in case you had nodded off. Bounding over to serve you in restaurants.
“Hi there, folks! Today’s special has fresh ’erbs, including BAY-zil, ORRRRRE-gano and fresh VEG-a-Tables in it.”
But when you say in hilarious response, “Does it come in aluuuuuuuuuuminum foil?”
They don’t get it.
Louise Rennison will be discussing humour on both sides of the pond, and other interesting things, with her fellow countryman Jim Smith (author of Barry Loser and winner of the Roald Dahl Funny prize 2013) and American author Jon Scieszka (author of many hilarious books including Stinky Cheeseman and most lately Frank Einstein) – in a panel event chaired by Guardian children’s books editor Emily Drabble, run with IBBY at Waterstones Piccadilly, London, on 7 October 2014.
