Divorced from a wife, who’d moaned about me always running, and when recovering from that, writing, I, fed up of her moaning, joined comics, singers and poets at an ‘open mic’ event in The Bashful Bull, a quaint pub in Much Hoole-in-the-Marrow.

It was run by Brian, who boasted about his degree in The Science of Comedy.
Unfortunately, he remembered me from that elite public school in Harrow.

In those days, I was a nervous, stammering boy, only good at athletics, which wasn’t a ‘cool’ sport, like football.

When I toed the starting line, he would blow a raspberry, flexing his muscles as the school’s best shot putter. 

You can tell we weren’t the best of buddies.

Waiting for my spot at the microphone, he remarked, ‘Didn’t I see you jogging the other day,
are you trying to get rid of the gut?’

Annoyed, I replied, ‘I was an athlete and quite fleet of foot.

‘Not like you, who could hardly move when putting the shot.’

‘Don’t be cheeky!’

‘Anyway, I was a good runner,’ I moaned.

Then stood up and read my poem, Oh, where is Cupid? about a maiden, Felicity Flyde, courted by Bertie, a ‘thoroughly untrustworthy fellow’, according to her aunt, who was like a character in The Importance of Being Earnest, a play by Oscar Wilde.

But I didn’t half feel stupid, when someone mumbled, ‘Not politically correct.’
Embarrassed, I headed to the park for my post-performance mental review.

‘Well, some people laughed,’ I argued to myself, ‘so his advice is flawed.’

However, I couldn’t relax due to the twittering of a sparrow, whom I christened Flightyflew.

She seemed familiar, and I suddenly recalled using the park’s undulating paths to train for a half marathon, in my freedom shorts, jeered at by cider-drinking louts.

With a shock I realised she was the same winged wonder who’d encouraged me in my exertions, her shrill voice urging me to greater speed.

But she always left a smelly gift – bird poo – in my tracksuit bottoms, which I’d left concealed under a bush.

I forgave her, for the following week, when I reached the last mile of the aforementioned race, with a slender lead, I hit a wall of pain.

Then I miraculously heard the little bird twitterer, or one of her relations, and won in a sprint finish, for, despite what Big Brian said, I couldn’t half shift.

As a result, I recognised this little wing flapper as a good omen, and always felt compelled to first hear her twittering, before performing at the open mic.

‘Oh, what is comedy?’ I wondered, remembering that old comedian Max Miller, whose gags would definitely raise the ire of modern women.

Not to mention banjo-ukulele film star George Formby, a comical genius, by now almost forgotten, who amused everyone when in trouble, by saying, ‘Oh mother!’

Disillusioned, I decided the modern ‘cool’ version of the laughter industry is not for me, it’s too far up its collective bottom.

But you’ll never guess what happened, after the video was leaked of a show I did at The Bashful Bull, in Much Hoole-in-the-Marrow?

I read another poem about Bertie, but, faced with a stony-faced audience, panicked.
People looked concerned, while my nemesis, Brian, beamed a knowing smile.

However, I was saved by the appearance of that lovely little sparrow, who settled on my arm, pecking at a pint of brown ale.

Then the room erupted with laughter, when the little bird twittered in Brian’s ear, depositing a parting gift.

However, I drew the attention of Bertram, a talent scout from Bertram Basslethwaite’s Travelling Circus.

He hired me as a clown, after I assuring him I used to run, for clowns are always being chased around.

The chap from the roving funfair agreed, saying ‘’Ah lad, you can’t ’alf shift!

‘With you and the bird, we’ll make pots of money!’

Touring the country, at every performance under the big top, children erupt in laughter,
all down to me, at last a success in the tough art of comedy.

However, I’m not looking forward to performing at Much Hoole-in-the-Marrow.

But maybe Brian will join in the fun, with me and Flightyflew.
Then actually learn how to be funny.