EVERYONE, including the Mexicans and the Brits, enjoys a good joke. But the problem is: the Brits think they are funnier than the rest of us.

They are so serious about themselves that they even think they own the universe, and that they can make fun of any nationality on earth - such as the French, Italians and Germans - without any recriminations.

Over and above that, they expect everyone to burst out in laughter every time they make what they consider to be a joke.

That is what they probably thought would happen when one Richard Hammond made a supposedly jocular remark about the Mexicans on BBC's Top Gear programme the other day. No one, to their disappointment, found it amusing.

Instead, Hammond's alleged joke was met with a collective national hysteria by the Mexicans, forcing the BBC to offer an unreserved apology to the South American nation.

In a letter to Ambassador Eduardo Medina-Mora Icaza, the broadcaster apologetically said national stereotyping was part of British humour.

"Our comedians make jokes about the British being terrible cooks and terrible romantics, and we in turn make jokes about the Italians being disorganised and overdramatic, the French being arrogant and the Germans being over-organised. We are sorry if we have offended some people, but jokes centred on national stereotyping are a part of Top Gear's humour."

But what exactly had Hammond said on the programme that got the Mexicans so worked up?

"Mexican cars are just going to be a lazy, feckless, flatulent oaf with a moustache leaning against a fence asleep looking at a cactus with a blanket with a hole in the middle on as a coat," he had said.

Now, what on earth does this mean, you may ask? No wonder the Mexicans were so hysterical. The remark was not so funny it was funny.

What got the Mexicans hot under the collar was not the fact that Hammond had tried to make fun of them, but because he had associated them with such a pathetic and unimaginative sick joke.

Shenanigan or Shanganian?

Talking about nationalities, Guluva does not know what to say about the day he sent his 8-year-old son to a former Model C school in one of the tranquil and tree-lined suburbs in Gauteng.

Unlike before, poor Model C children these days rub shoulders with Tanzanian, Ghanaian, Nigerian, Algerian, Iranian, Zambian and even Egyptian kids, which is, if you think about it, a good thing considering the fact that globalisation - not only the excellent command of the English language - is the real issue that confronts all of us.

The coming together of people of various nationalities is, whether we like it or not, the way of the future.

Guluva's boy returned home from school the other day and excitedly exclaimed: "Dad, I now know what my nationality is."

Now, this was interesting because it totally came out of the blue. Guluva had, however, thought the answer would be as straightforward as A-B-C.

Curiously, he asked his son: "Great, my boy. Now, tell me, what is your nationality?"

Confidently, and without hesitation, the boy said: "I am a Shanganian!"

Even when the boy was told there was no country in the whole wide world called Shangaan, and that he was, in fact, a South African, Guluva's son would not budge.

Email Guluva on: thatha.guluva@gmail.com