Wordplay and wrestling with puns

This International Day of People with Disabilities, The D*List is embracing play, and what that means to us as disabled people. We called for community submissions and how people incorporate play in their lives. In this submission, Lucy Croft shares her love - and skill - for volleying puns.

I’ve always been a bit shit at sports. Sport was an enigma for me, the idea of play elusive while I struggled to maintain a volley in tennis and watched classmates run, envious of their elegance compared to my galumphing. There was one time where I, somehow, managed the top ten in primary school cross country. I always had ‘enthusiastic but poor coordination’, on my school reports. And, in the ultimate compliment sandwich, my P.E. teacher noted that I always remembered to bring my sports uniform to school.

Many years later, an advertisement for pun battles began doing the rounds on Facebook. There were slogans like ‘sharpen your wea-puns’ and ‘battle of the brains’. My friends started tagging me in these posts, egging me on. Because, although I was shit at sport, I wasn’t shit with words. Puns fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. I regularly contributed to friend’s tears of laughter and disgust. With much egging on, I sent an email. And I was in.

The first pun battle was part of the Fringe Festival. Friends bought tickets for the heat I was in, equally wanting to support me and satiate their curiosity of what a pun battle was. I sat backstage, trying to make small talk with my fellow battlers. I couldn’t tell what was sweatier – my palms or my glass of cider with condensation dripping onto the table. There were three rounds: the first, a battle between two contestants. A subject was drawn out of a hat, and we had to parlay puns back and forth until one of us repeated a pun, or stalled for too long. I was on the right-hand mic, so my hearing aids could pick up my opponent’s puns. I stumbled through, nerves getting to me. Somehow, I made it through to the second round. I didn’t need a hearing aid to hear my friends’ cheer.

The second round was a story, composed during the drinks break. Again, we had a topic and needed as many puns as possible, while making a cohesive story. All my training in English classes led to this moment. I scrabbled out words, my hand cramping as I wrote as fast and coherently as possible. It was a more fun version of an NCEA exam. I spoke the story aloud, thankful that my parents weren’t in the audience. Luck was on my side – I was through to the next heat of the pun battles. My friends rapidly bought tickets to the following night, jubilant.

Their jubilance was tested. There wasn’t just one pun battle. There were several. Over the course of the next few years, I entered them all, placing (or not) in various stages. The backstage of the Fringe bar became familiar, with all the posters from previous bands ever-changing. There was a regular cast of characters entered into each pun battle. And it was accessible. My hearing was no issue. I was no issue. I could volley puns back and forth over the net with the best of them. The adrenaline rush from being onstage was better than any runners high I’d experienced. I could become a cooler persona of myself on stage, someone who rolled with the punches. Pun intended.

There hasn’t been a battle in a while. I’m still chasing the high. I catch it when I create my own words, read my own work at events. Studying creative writing this year has allowed me to roll around with words, playing dirty. Perhaps theatre sports will be next. I don't know what the next opportunity holds, but I do know that this is more enjoyable than a soggy compliment sandwich in P.E.

There’re some friends who still ask when the next battle is, not scarred from too many puns. There’re others, too, who say ‘never again’. Fair play. Some even make their own puns now, proof that hanging out with me is an influence. I'm not allowed to groan, though. Apparently, it's payback for the torment I put them through –- all the tickets they bought to see me. My flatmate refuses to give me the laughs for bad puns, always encouraging me to aim higher (or lower?). No matter what, though, one of the rules of the pun battle arena stands true: bad puns are still puns. 

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