Wha laughs like us? Larry Dean defines the Scottish sense of humour

As two queues begin to form, a short woman makes her way towards the official, a mischievous determination in her eyes:

“Aym sorry hen, but where em ey supposed to go?”

The official frowns. “Well I’m Scoottesh, no English, should a no make ma own queue?”

Moira, the woman in question, is an family friend who’s been living and working in England for the past 20 years.

She’s actually from Dunoon, but when she tells the above story her accent takes a trip back up the Clyde for effect.

She smirks a smirk that comes with the playfulness of her Scottish pride.

“Oh I love England,” she delights in telling her English friends “it’s just a shame about all the English people.”

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It’s an old joke, but is it funny? Because, of course, English people can be Scottish too.

After all, if Scottishness were simply a case of genetics and family trees, we’d have to concede that Donald Trump is half Scottish.

Nuff said. And if the Yes campaign in the 2014 referendum highlighted anything it was that birth and breeding mean nothing compared to choice.

Should you choose to live your life in Scotland – with our quirks, customs and traditions – then you’re a Scot. Simple as that.

As a comedian working a lot in England, I’m often asked to define “Scottish” comedy.

Which is a really tough question. First off, there’s the assumption that a nationally shared sense of humour exists at all.

Is it really possible for five million people to make the same kind of jokes and find the same things funny?

And secondly, assuming people of other nationalities will get, share and make similar jokes as us Scots, can we really lay claim to our own distinct brand of humour?

Well, as Moira highlighted nicely, there’s certainly one uniquely Scottish subject when it comes to making a jape.

That being the desire to be recognised as Scottish. However, if there’s one thing we Scottish like to laugh at, it’s ourselves. Which is useful when facing internationally reinforced caricatures every time we turn on the telly. (Think of Groundskeeper Willie from The Simpsons.)

Being from the nation that’s credited with the invention of the deep-fried whatever, the man-skirt, and bad weather, I’d say we’re pretty good at taking a joke.

But do we Scots really live up to the stereotypes? Or do we just put up with them for the sake of a laugh? Are we really tight with money? No, in fact a poll in 2013 suggested that Scots give away nearly £100 more a year than wealthy Londoners. Is our diet really so bad? Well in truth it tends not to be the best, but we really don’t actually deep fry everything ... at least not our alcohol.

Are we violent? No. Do our men occasionally wear a skirt? Yes, and they’d kick sh** out of anyone who says oot aboot it. But again, the thing about all these hackneyed ideas of Scotland is that even if people do accept them at face value, I don’t think Scots really mind.

We’re not precious or particularly attached to any specific image or idea of ourselves. If someone wants a cheap laugh at our expense they’re more than welcome to go ahead. We’d probably laugh louder than anyone else.

So, if only to try and outline what characterises the Scottish sense of humour, if there is such a thing, let’s try and work out exactly how it differs from that of our English counterparts. First off, I should say that I actually think the English have quite a similar sense of humour. Many of my English friends are able to join me in a silly natter and I can’t recall ever withholding a joke because it was “too Scottish”, or not getting one because it was “too English”. There are hundreds of English comics and non-comics I adore for their own, inimitable styles of humour.

Yet if the English and the Scottish senses of humour are in many ways similar, the first, most obvious difference has to be the accent. Not to put too fine a point on it, there tends to be something very unpretentious about a Scottish comedian tell jokes. Though to be fair, it’s hard to make something sound pompous when you can barely make it sound like words. Maybe that’s the difference. Maybe when an English person tells a joke and someone says, “What are you trying to say?” they don’t necessarily mean the same thing as when they say that to a Scottish comedian.

Over the years, many English-based TV shows have made fine use of the Scottish accent. The cantankerous Greenock lilt of Victor Meldrew (Richard Wilson) in One Foot In The Grave; and the volatile, though precise Glaswegian aggression of the Malcolm Tucker (Peter Capaldi) in The Thick Of It, to name just two examples of Scottishness exported to comic effect. Exactly what it brings to each role is hard to say, but the Scottish accent always seems to add a certain special something when placed amidst an otherwise English cast. Perhaps it’s a question of contrast: the ability of a distinctive voice to cut through the noise, to the chase, and tell it like it is.

“I’d love to stop and chat to you,” says Malcolm Tucker in The Thick Of It, “but I’d rather have Type 2 diabetes.”

Scots also have a characteristic way of presenting themselves in TV shows and other scripted dramas. Many long-running English narrative comedies tend to focus on the middle classes. Think of David Brent in The Office, Basil Fawlty in Fawlty Towers, Edina and Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous: they all think they are something, or at least believe they or deserve to be something. Whereas Scottish long-form comedy tends to focus on the working classes. Still Game, Rab C Nesbitt, Chewing The Fat ... they’re all shows about people who have accepted their lot.

These are all great shows – truly innovative, daft, surreal and clever – but I can’t help thinking that the Scottish middle classes are sorely underrepresented in our comedy.

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And while there are comedies which depict the English working classes (The Royle Family, Dinnerladies, Birds Of A Feather), the only show I can find that depicts the aspiring middle classes of Scotland is Balamory – a delightful, if somewhat light programme made for CBBC. Which is a shame. I don’t know if this is because Scottish people shy away from the idea that there’s anything but a working class in Scotland (meaning supply is being dictated by demand) or if comedy commissioners have got certain ideas about Scottish audiences. But either way I strongly believe there’s a market and a lot of room on telly to be making more fun of Scots with a bit of dosh.

I also believe there’s also a certain bluntness to us Scots that perhaps the English don’t have. A directness that gives us something of a comedic gruffness. When it comes to expressing ourselves we tend not to overcomplicate things. Nor do we waste time trying to make things sound prettier than they are. Which is why, when it comes to displaying distaste, I believe it’s also very Scottish not to faff about.

A serious example would be Nicola Sturgeon’s pithy response to Boris Johnson’s post-Brexit statement that “Project Fear is over”. “Indeed, Boris,” she tweeted, “Project farce has now begun – and you’re largely responsible’.” On the basis of her plain speaking alone, I have English friends who say they’d have voted SNP if they could.

I also remember being with a friend at an exhibition of Elvis memorabilia in London. We’d made our way round the place and found ourselves in the gift shop, which was heaving. Young and old from all over the world were umming and ahhing over absurdly-priced tatt which no-one in their right minds would buy. Much of which I quickly managed to get for much less on the internet later. Me and my friend were laughing covertly at the scene when a brazenly disgruntled woman piped up from the other side of the shop: “Ach ahm off tae ge’ a programme, all the rest of the stuff in here is sh*** … Malcolm, watch the kids wid ya?” causing my friend to turn to me and say “Ahh there’s nothing quite like the sound of the sharp Glaswegian twang, telling it like it is.”

Which perhaps brings us back to the question of accents. I do find that I often have to soften my speech, or slow my pace, whenever I’m gigging south of the Border. Despite my accent being pretty tame compared to others you’d hear in Glasgow, I find that audiences can struggle to keep up. So in that way I do have to make adjustments for Anglo audiences.

Of course Kevin Bridges and Billy Connolly tell their stories in their own individual, though distinctly Glaswegian, way, but they too had to learn to take their time. It might even be argued that this measuring of words for non-Scottish audiences went some way towards developing their sense of rhythm and comic timing.

I actually started my career down in England because I was afraid of the Glasgow hecklers. Despite Glasgow now being a great place to gig, Glaswegians being some of the nicest people you could hope to get at a show, during the days of variety and music hall comedy they were said to be merciless. At least that’s what my dad told me. I don’t know if he’d had first-hand experience of audience interaction at gigs during the 1920s, but he was the one who warned me off.

Finally, I really want to stress how much I believe comedy to be a shared pleasure, as well as a tool for questioning and testing partitions in society rather than glorifying them. Really, it’s an old sentiment, but one worth repeating that the things that make us different are trivial in comparison to the things that make us the same.

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However, because it’s Fringe time and I want to end by plugging a show other than my own, and would be strung up for highlighting anyone but a Scot, I’m going to recommend a comedian you might never have gone to see otherwise. His name is Raymond Mearns and his big, daft, razor-sharp mouth has been an inspiration to me since I started out. Should such a thing exist, I believe he’s a clear emblem for Scottish humour. If there’s anyone who really embodies our wee way about things, I’d have to say it was him. Which isn’t to say that you’re in for a rundown of Scottish references or a patriotic rant, but there is something very homegrown about his humour. He’s quick, cutting, but completely unpretentious. He comes across as both working-class and extremely intelligent ... and his accent is uncompromising.

Larry Dean is performing Farcissist daily at 7.15pm, Pleasance Upstairs until Sunday, August 28 (not August 15). Buy your tickets at https://www.pleasance.co.uk