A WANNABE
… wannabe wot? 
You name it. But in this instance: a wannabe humorist.
Style. Ya gotta have style. You know, a bit like a chimpanzee drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa—
—and we come across it everywhere. I dare say that deep down in some unvisited caverns there are doubtlessly moustaches added to cave-art bisons—and why not? It’s a timeless thing.
Sometimes they may get it right. Other times they do little more than ‘come out’ as it were—unintentionally but emphatically demonstrating an almost hopeless inadequacy; desperation made manifest.
Or on occasion a genuine talent.
SUTTLE
ya godda be subtle, especially in humour. Airborne custard pies may well be converging from every point of the compass but the guy in the background who slips on the banana while sneaking in for the classic ambush shot is the one who will score the laugh.
OK. TONIGHT I’M A BIT
jaded. We’ve just watched a Midsomer Murders and both of us know the tune the lassie was teaching on the piano but neither of us can pin a name to it. This, indeed, is the exemplar of ultimate frustration; Tantalus be damned, we’re going gaga over it—
dum da da da da—da da da daaaaah; dum da daaah, da da daaah
—and any help you might give with it would be very gratefully accepted:
“Hey you! Broken nose—play the piano!”
“I ain’t got a broken nose!”
CRUNCH
plinkety plankety plonkety plunk …
