I am also not really sure I would classify the second example as a trope of irony.
Mmm... Does it sounds funny to you? Does it seem not an ordinary phrase? Do you feel it is somehow different from the ordinary not-coloured neutral speech?
Concerning the nother case I think you are absolutely right saying:
I suppose broadly interpreted it could be one (aphorism); however, I will say it is not an original one. I believe this statement or something very close to it is, if not in common usage, at least not unique.
I'm fiercly trying to find some original motto, that's why I cling to every chance. That one is not unique, it's trite.
Hi Joanna, sorry I didn't reply to the last question. I just didn't want to give a reply to a quotation taken out of context. I still haven't taken the opportunity to check the full text in Moab yet, so I will withhold any comment on that the humor of the statement.
Perhaps that will help?
"I left Cawston Village School in the March of 1965 and arrived at Stouts Hill the following month, -the only new boy of that summer term.
The corpus studenti (since we’ve gone all classical) numbered just over a hundred, boys being divided into four Houses: Kingfishers, Otters, Wasps and Panthers. The dormitories were named after trees — Elm, Oak, Beech, Sycamore and Cypress.
... Stouts Hill accepted no day boys and the exceptionally grand uniform, which included the most wondrous herring¬bone winter coat (as worn by my brother, and perched upon by a monkey, in the photograph sec¬tion in the middle of this book), Aertex shirts for summer, Clydella for winter, a cap, a boater, a grey suit for High Days and Church, blazers, V-necks, ties, games shirts, games pullovers, shorts, snake belt in school colours (optional long trousers for those aged ten and over) and the most fantastical numbers of games socks, uniform socks and regulation elastic garters for the upkeep of same socks, was to be ordered by parents exclusively from Daniel Neale’s in Hanover Square and latterly, when Daniel Neale went out of business, from Gorringe’s in Kensington High Street. All clothing was to be clearly marked with the owner’s name — good business for Messrs Cash and Company who had cornered the market in name-tapes in those days. The other essential item, naturally, was the tuck-box, the boy’s surname and initials to be printed in black upon the lid.
Aside from the Angus girls, the female presence included Sister Pinder who had a Royal Naval husband, a magnificent wimple, starched cuffs and an upside-down watch of the kind included in the nurse’s outfits little girls always want for Christmas. Her preferred method of punishment when roused was a sharp slap with a metal ruler on the hand — far less painful than it sounds. Her son John was about my age and bound, if I remember rightly, for Pangbourne Naval College. For all I know he is an Admiral of the Fleet today, although if most of my school contemporaries are anything to go by he works in the City, in advertising, commercial property, the film business or as a happily indigent carpenter (at a pinch ceramic artist) in Cornwall. Such is my generation. As in the Carry On films there was a Matron as well as a Sister; on my arrival the incumbent was a Mrs Waterston, called Matey or Matey Bubbles after a nursery bath-foam of the same name. She also had a nephew at the school, though I fear I remember very little about him. Assistant Matrons came and went on the summer breeze and the only one I recall with any vividness was a bespectacled blonde girl called Marilyn (in my entirely unreliable memory an evangelical Christian) who played the guitar and would, when begged, lullaby my dormitory to sleep with a song inexplicably about (unless I have gone entirely mad) El Paso. Marilyn won the heart of my brother Roger on a walking tour in the Isle of Wight one summer holiday: he returned with a glass lighthouse filled with layers of different coloured sand from Ryde and a much larger Adam’s apple than he had left with. The symbolism of the lighthouse is the kind of hackneyed detail that only real life has the impertinence to throw up. The school secretary, Mrs Wall, wore nice tweed suits and had a pleasantly citrus and peppery smell. I believe she went by the name of Enid. The school Chef was called Ken Hunt and his egg or chicken dishes were the consequent victim of endless spooneristic jokes, which I am sure you don’t need to have spelled out for you. He had two kitchen porters, Celia, hugely fat, hairy and Spanish,
by whom I was overwhelmingly mothered throughout my time at Stouts Hill and her husband Abiel, almost as hugely fat, Spanish and hairy as his wife and quite as generous to me.
There was a butler called Mr Dealey, of whom I was greatly in awe. ..."
There is plenty of funny things in this abstract, but I'm interested only in the bold. Does it sound funny to you?