Last year I made a show, Bricking It, with my 74-year-old builder dad, Pat. The premise was a job swap – comedy virgin Pat would learn how to be a comedian, while I would learn the ropes of bricklaying. Pat had never been on stage before. He was born in the rural west of Ireland and emigrated to England in his mid-teens.
Fast forward 60 years and Pat was shocked to find himself on stage, dancing to the Bee Gees, in a pink suit, at the Edinburgh fringe. However, after our month-long run, Pat was even more shocked to find himself back in Barnet, in his local caff, sat next to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator – Arnie methodically orders the Set 2 breakfast from the luminous menu above the counter, mechanically picks up the newspaper, pre-programmed, he turns instantly to page 3, “Yes. Boobs. Builders like. Boobs. Yes. Boobs. Builders like …”
I jest. Almost. The introduction of proposed robo-brickies on building sites in the UK would be no laughing matter – “Would they come with a white van and a builder’s bum?” my dad chuckles as I break the news to him over our weekly fry-up “… Would they get my jokes?” His dawning realisation that his dad gags might go unnoticed by the robo-brickie T1000, is now of genuine, pressing concern.
What I learned from our job swap was that our respective professions weren’t that dissimilar. Both our working days were punctuated by cups of tea and most importantly, conversation. Whether sat on the crumbling wall of the building site or in front of a group of punters at Edinburgh (tea was shared with the audience each night), the pause for a cuppa was a moment to reflect and listen to each other’s stories. By swapping experiences, we began to understand each other’s worlds better.
I learned that there were many wannabe comics on the sites, Pat wasn’t the only one. I saw that sharing anecdotes and jokes was how many of the builders bonded. Builders might not share the gushing, tactile exchanges of us performer types, but through storytelling, robust, but affection-filled exchanges are shared. In my experience on site, I am yet to encounter the white van builder stereotype. The workmen I met weren’t one bit interested in ogling at my small fried eggs – they were more concerned with how swiftly I could lob the cement bags into the back of the truck so we all finish up for the day and head for a pint.
Yes, there were times when I think working with a robot would have been easier than working with my dad. Last Edinburgh, every morning, he would berate me for not being up at 6am to flyer our show. 6AM! Where is Pat? Flyering in the post office, flyering in Greggs, flyering in Aldi – he was escorted out of Santander because he was flyering baffled cashiers over the counter. No joke. My dad was like a machine. Maybe Pat is a robot?
But it really was this personal touch that got us bums on seats. Dad would regularly deviate off script, mid show, to point excitedly at a couple he’d spotted in the back row: “I flyered them in Wetherspoon’s!” And it was these one-on-one encounters with strangers, these chance meetings, that we both valued so much during this project. My dad’s seemingly maverick flyering techniques were testament to an environment I witnessed on the building site. Have a chat, ask a favour, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. The photo shoot for our Edinburgh poster was at my dad’s local builder’s merchants. Willing friends from my dad’s past loaned us diggers and cement mixers to pose with. Other workmen around us carried on with their day’s graft, nonplussed, aside from the occasional wink and thumbs-up at my dad, looking proud in his pink suit.
When my dad’s not moonlighting in comedy showbiz, he works with many younger immigrants, who like himself are here to make a better life for themselves and their families. The older generations of builders are mentors to the younger ones on site. They’ve sweated, they’ve toiled, their veins pumping with builders’ tea, full to the brim with stories to share wisdom.
Would robo-brickie have a wisdom button? What if a cup of PG Tips causes the robo-brickie’s system to malfunction? What if robo-brickie T1000 interrupts Pat’s punchline with “does not compute” before ejecting itself from site, wolf whistling, on loop, unstoppable, for ever?
As embarrassing as Pat’s dad gags and pink suit are, I’d choose them any day over the robo-brickie. I wouldn’t trust the Terminator’s bricklaying skills or comic timing.
