As a kid I fancied myself as a comic, a budding Ben Elton, 
that shoutily left-wing fellow the BBC gave a platform to,
but I was too posh to be political.

School pals laughed their socks off, but only because I
was generous with my dad’s cigars.

He was a big noise in the Foreign Office, returning from overseas with Cuban Cohibas, the favourite smoke of Cuban leader, Fidel Castro.

Following his scholarly example, I went ‘up’ to Cambridge,
where, though full of puerile wit, I was regarded as a ‘jolly good fellow’, overly generous down the pub.

However, though I still nurtured an ambition to be professionally comical,
I trod a predictable career path, landing a ministerial post.

Then one fateful night I went to a ‘cool’ comedy club’,
where a duo called The Funny Girls talked about teenage fumblings.

When I didn’t laugh, they called me a ‘misogynist’.

I objected, saying, ‘You can’t be serious!’

Next up was Joe The Dribble, whose routine revolved around football.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but I prefer rugby.’ 

He looked at me with a smile, saying, ‘Have you ever thought of therapy?’

‘Yes,’ chimed the ‘funny’ females, ‘we can recommend a good therapist.’

I thought, ‘surely I can do better than that lot, they were awful!'

So I called myself Mad Muchness, The Guzzling Guitarist, singing silly songs, like ‘I always wanted to be a jockey,
but fell off my mount, a pony called short-sighted Sally.’

My dad’s words rang in my ears, ‘Remember your pension, stay in the service!’

I died at a variety of venues, from Bradford’s The Big Billycock,
its Lancashire neighbour Bouncing Benjis, founded by a guy who loved alliteration, 
finishing as a nervous wreck at The Fighting Fowl in Walthamstow.

Then one night, trudging home from the office, which I’d returned to,
shamefaced after my comical sabbatical,
I was transfixed by a haunting melody,
played on a mandolin by an old student pal, ‘Whaler’ Wilson-Wallace, 
who was always singing songs about whaling ships sailing from Nantucket.

‘I remember you,’ I declared, ‘always quoting from Moby Dick.’

I refer of course to that epic American novel, about a rampaging whale,
which destroyed a ship from that same Massachusetts port.

In fact, Whaler’s only connection to the sea was his father’s yacht.

He was touring with his fortune-telling aunt Mary McFennally,
the support act for his band, Fairytown Folkies. 

She declared, ‘The wind will blow right for you soon!’

We retired to a curry house called The Mighty Monsoon,
where he declared, ‘I remember you and your dubious wit!
 
‘When we yachted to Cannes, you really came out of your shell,
carousing with scantily-clad luvvies.’

The next day, pondering what Whaler’s aunt had said,
a storm blew The Racing Post into my face.

It featured an article about Galloping Gable, a very troubled racehorse.

On an impulse I put £50 on her to win at Newmarket.
 

Then, in the middle of my subsequent celebration,
chomping through a good steak, I caught the eye of Maisy McMonavan.

She confided, ‘I often visit restaurants on my own.
But I’m not a modern woman, just choosy.

‘My last partner was a so-called comic, calling himself ‘Joe the Dribble’.

He’s obsessed with football, and, if you’ll pardon the pun, talked a lot of ‘balls’.

‘He was also unfaithful, with not one, but two women,
a comedy act called The Funny Girls.’

We fell in love, then one afternoon as I watched her sketch leaping salmon,
a horse careered along the path, only slowing when I sang an Irish ballad, 
earning the thanks of Tommy the Turf, her Irish trainer.

‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I know that tune, it’s called The Fermoy Fusiliers.’

‘Yes,’ I concurred, ‘my mum, always a rebel, sings Irish ballads.
 

'But my father, a big wig in the government’s Foreign Service,
says it’s embarrassing for him, so they’re heading for a divorce.’

It turned out this was the very animal who’d come good for me. 

She’d won every race from Goodwood to Ascot, but had now emitted
a final ‘neigh!’, causing a bookies’ riot at Haydock.

Maisy and I left for Ireland with Tommy, and his now happier horse.

Soon, Mighty Maciddilladiddio won the Irish Grand National,
ridden by an unknown jockey, me.

I’m only five foot, and often rode Felicity Flat Ear, haring along, firing my pistol at the sheriff.

My father won heaps of trophies on her, in that equestrian game of polo.

Afterwards, who should I see in the VIP enclosure,
but Joe the Dribble, billed as ‘A comical tour de force’.

‘I’m nervous,’ he whispered, ‘I’m not afraid to admit, for
this lot isn't my usual audience.

'They’re a women’s rugby team from Australia.’

After making a joke about 'handbags' in the scrum, he was mercilessly booed, so his manager cancelled a tour of Australasia.

On my return from across the Irish Sea, I was grabbed by old Cambridge chum, ‘Whaler’ Wilson-Wallace, who said, ‘I heard about Galloping Gable.

‘A pal of mine says he heard her neighing near a hidden stable?

‘Apparently, you made a packet in Ireland
on a similar-looking mount, called Mighty Macdillpiddle?

‘Let me into your racing consortium, and I’ll slip you a load of hay.’

I looked at him and seized my chance, ‘I hear you’re turning
your yacht into a cabaret.

‘Let me appear, and you’re in. l’ll get my pal, a football-mad comic, to do a demonstration dribble, while Maisy can sketch leaping salmon.’

The punters loved our show, as did my father.
(I had the great idea of hiring a lookalike of Fidel Castro.)

The aged parent cried, ‘Oh, you are a wit, I half expected you to invite Ben Elton,’ and danced away with my mother.

Complete with a new stage-name, Forthright Full-Fellow, Whaler and I are launching a musical about Moby Dick.

Joe and the Funny Girls
are the warm-up act, while dad hands out smokes in the interval.

At the end, in an ironic twist, I’m rescued from the sea by
the architect of my new career, Galloping Gable.