"There's nothing so unfunny as people trying to analyse humour." That is, dear reader, because the stupid bastards at University College Fulchester forget to throw in a few cheap nob gags of their own in a 2,000 page analysis of knock-knock jokes in a post-modern society dominated by the doorbell.
My humour, as regular readers will testify, can be best described as "total ape-shit bonkers on Prozac"; or as Mrs Duck says: "Look, just shut up."
The problem is that the best gags spring from something completely ordinary, and my saying (usually out loud, in a crowded room) "Yeah, but what if...?" This often happens during the evening news, where a fit of laughter means that I've gone off on one again.
"Pffffft!"
(Resigned) "What is it now?"
"Blunkett's banging on about ID cards again. Why don't we just tell him we've all got one - he'll never know."
"Look, just shut up."
"And while we're at it, let's replace his guide dog with a tiger. That'll be good for a laugh."
"SHUT. UP!"
A recent programme on Iraqi WMDs lead to a prolonged, and if my memory serves, painful discussion on Guns That Turn Your Enemies Into Sheep, and "That's why you haven't got any friends". And I thought Tony Hancock had a hard time.
Strangely, my best writing is done on platform three at Bournemouth Station, where confused thoughts of work, home and travel can be pulled together as I wait, bum-grapes aching on the metal bench for transport, any transport, west of Poole. And it's ace for collecting train numbers, too. Arse-berries aside, it is my favourite place, where I try fruitlessly to increase the mass usage of the words "spooge", "minge" and "philately", while trying to put a "Trapped in Sticker Factory" sticker on the huge Welcome to Bournemouth sign without the station master beating me senseless.
So, where does humour come from, apart from the usual pain, adversity, solitude, self-loathing and dressing up in womens' underwear for a quick laugh? I've thought long and hard about this and have, after much soul-searching, come up with the following: Buggered if I know, but Les Dawson made quite a career out of it.
Now clear off the lot of ya - I've hammered this one into the ground. You've sucked me dry, I can analyse comedy no more. You even got a good half-a-dozen gags into the bargain, something you wouldn't normally see in the Daily Telegraph, unless there's a particularly good tale of infidelity going through the High Court.
Train coming, spotter's notebook ready, all out of Anusol. "Stone me, what a life."
Dates for your diary: July 12th - the guy at the top of my road finally takes down his Christmas lights, large house discovered underneath.
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