Kishihachi's Opening: My granddaughter's wedding and thirty seconds

A wedding speech is done short, my master taught me. Long, and the happiness thins. Last week I had occasion to demonstrate the teaching in thirty seconds.

There is an actress called Hikari Shinomiya. She played my granddaughter in a morning serial. The filming was two years ago, and between takes she would come to my dressing room and drink tea from my cup. Her tail, in those days, she hid. "You needn't hide it," I said, and she said, "Mr. Kishihachi, you don't hide your ears." I am first-generation; the idea of hiding never occurred to me. Hiding is for the generation that can.

Now she is marrying. The groom is an actor called Kujo who says little. He spoke four sentences at the conference, they say, but as I see it, four sentences are enough for that man. The men who lack something are the ones who talk. A rakugo storyteller tells you this; it is not wrong.

I was asked to give the toast. I did it in thirty seconds. The room roared, but not because the speech was funny — because it truly ended in thirty seconds. The world's toasts are too long. End in thirty seconds and people laugh from that alone. This is a secret of the art, so please do not spread it.

A granddaughter marrying — even a granddaughter I only played opposite — is a strange thing, and on the way home I was a little lonely. I bought lullaby buns on the Shiomibashi shopping street and ate two. One for myself; one for the day I said she needn't hide.

At the wedding next spring I may be asked to sing. I will not. Singing is Miss Shirase's work. I will do the opening. In thirty seconds.