I'll admit, I was a little sceptical about returning to Avenue Q. I saw it on its original West End run back in… OH MY GOD I AM SO OLD! FUCK! Where did the time go?

It's always hard to know how much to update a show. Does it need constant reinvention to stay in the zeitgeist or can it be pickled forever as a classic?

"I wish I had taken more pictures" was something that utterly resonated with me about my university experience. Photos were a rare commodity back when film still cost a couple of quid to develop. Perhaps today's uni students will sing "I wish I had posted less on Instagram"?

The show has been sympathetically updated. Some of the references have been modernised, a transphobic joke given the boot, and the lyrics tweaked to sometimes devastating effect. The song "Everyone's A Little Bit Racist" seems to have the most changes - and all for the better.

Parts of the show are adapted for a UK audience. Barely anyone here knows who Gary Coleman was so his intro is changed (although I guess part of the metajoke is that we all watched foreign celebrities on Sesame Street when we were growing up - so what's one more obscure cultural reference?). In the American show, the Bad Idea Bears proffer Long Island Ice Teas - that was a bit tame for UK audiences, so in the original UK run they guzzled absinthe daiquiris - a change inexplicably reverted for this limited run.

As a piece of pure entertainment it is spectacular. The laughs are genuinely non-stop and the whole auditorium rose to give the performers a well-deserved ovation. It is a tender and beautiful show which shows off the power of live theatre.

The songs are still stuck in my head and the puppetry is still amazing. Absolutely hilarious, genuinely shocking in places, utterly filthy - an excellent night out.

Pre- and Post-Show

I've written before about The art of the Pre-Show and Post-Show. With West End prices higher than ever, it is incumbent on theatres to make their shows a memorable and spectacular evening out. That can be as simple as a bit of set dressing in the foyer, or as extravagant as they can get away with.

The offering is pretty reasonable here. You can buy the T-shirt, hoodie, and commemorative socks at exorbitant prices. The souvenir programme is £8 and, while lush with photos, is pretty sparse. The original West End programme from the early 2000s had a pin-up calendar of Lucy The Slut, a bunch more funny photos, and fake autographs of the puppets.

There's a photo-booth for taking selfies, but it appeared to be broken.

It might been nice to have a few puppets placed around for people to take photos with.

One of the simplest things a venue can do is put on a themed cocktail menu. I'm surprised more shows don't do that. Who is going to turn down a glass of "The Internet Is For Pornstar Martini"?

The Shaftesbury Theatre itself isn't too cramped, even in the cheap seats. Although, at the back of the stalls, the overhang cuts off the top of the set which means you will miss a bit of action in some scenes.

While we were waiting for the show to start, the auditorium was filled with soundscape of subway cars rattling and distorted announcements. Again, fairly cheap and simple, but a nice way to build the mood.

As we exited, we were handed leaflets encouraging us to come back and bring our friends. Even better was the £10 discount on our next booking!

Considering this is a limited run, the production has done a fair job of getting the audience in the mood and rewarding them for their patronage.

Well done to all involved!

This is a hugely extended version of Will Harris' "An oral history of Airplane". It goes through the pre-history of the project, how it eventually got made, and the aftermath. In many ways, it is like an old-fashioned DVD extra. The whole book consists of snippets of interviews with the cast, crew, and various talking heads.

Like all DVD special features, it is fairly sycophantic. Yes, there are some good-natured swipes at the people who passed on the script, but it is a bit of a Hollywood love-in. The self-deprecating humour is there to make people look classy - for example:

Eisner’s also the one who once said, “If I had green-lit every movie I’ve passed on and passed on every movie I green-lit, my track record would probably be about the same.”

About the only time it gets into anything other than "gooly-gee how lucky are we" is a small section talking about the star of one of their other films - the notorious murderer OJ Simpson:

David: I directed him in the Naked Gun movies. Although he actually improved with each film, his acting remained a lot like his murdering — he got away with it, but no one really believed him.

Some of the commentary is a bit perfunctory. Do we really need to know that Quentin Tarantino liked the movie? It's nice, I guess. Tim Allen bemoaning the state of comedy today lands like a turd in a punchbowl.

The photos throughout are good - especially those showing how the framing of certain shots were lovingly ripped off from Zero Hour.

It is a fun and uncomplicated book. For students of film, it is always fascinating to see how the sausage gets made. Occasionally it veers into "IMDb trivia" and you do get the sense that most of the anecdotes have been retold a thousand times. Still, it is entertaining.

There is a bit of a glum streak running through it though:

JEFFREY KATZENBERG: Airplane! was not like anything else. And Michael Eisner, I think, felt that in his bones. Like, “Wow, this is really, really unique, and as such, is the kind of thing we should be doing!”

Where did it all go wrong in Hollywood? Why are the people who made their name with weird films now content to pump out mediocrity?

There's a tantalising moment talking about alternative takes and an original cut which was some 20 minutes longer. But, alas:

Sadly, Paramount threw out all the dailies; every studio did at that time. All those reels took physical space that they needed on the lot, so they threw them out, including Airplane! Although I’m pretty sure they kept the outtakes from The Godfather.

Certainly worth flicking through if you're a fan of the film, but hardly revelatory.

I find misery-memoirs like this difficult to read and disturbing to think about. Much like the tragic story of Mini and Me, reading this book made me feel like I was trapped in one of those nightmares where you try to scream a warning but no sound comes out.

Fern has been refreshingly honest about autism and how it affects women in particular. I can't think when I last read an autobiography with so many detailed footnotes and academic citations. Unlike most other autobiographies, this isn't the sort of memoir where the author comes out of every situation triumphant via the magic of l'esprit de l'escalier. Instead the anecdotes are grim and occasionally terrifying.

That's not to say there aren't moments of levity. But this isn't a comedy book, it is an exercise in painful revelation.

Which brings my to my frustration with the book. At every turn, Fern makes the wrong choice. Even when people explicitly offer to help her, she rejects them. She complains that allistics don't say what they mean - and then refuses to tell the people in her life that she's suffering. She claims to be driven by logic and reason and then makes the most illogical and harmful choices possible, while behaving completely unreasonably. It all becomes a little repetitive and - dare I say - paints her as a rather helpless and pathetic figure.

It is a good book; well-written, powerful, and grimly humorous - but it left me feeling deeply upset.

The book has been written with a very specific pace - one chuckle per paragraph, a big laugh every page, and a set number of uncontrollable giggles per chapter. Somewhat formulaic, but highly effective.

I kept highlighting bits of it and showing them to my wife. After the 8th or 9th time she grabbed her own copy and started showing me the bits she found funny.

It's just endlessly quotable. "The emperor eventually died and was buried with a load of clay figures – like Nick Park will be." and "a sort of naughty typewriter called the Enigma machine" still keep me guffawing.

The long-running callbacks are perfect, as are the inclusion of a few fan favourite jokes.

Even the fucking index of this book is hilarious.

What's lost is the sense of topicality. Hey! Don't we all look at our phones too much?! Gosh! Isn't Daniel Craig a different James Bond to Roger Moore?! Zowie! That Viagra is a bit of a laugh amiritelaydeezngentlemen?!

The latter joke being almost 30 years old and, as he cheerfully informs us, originally written for Ronnie Corbett!

There are flashes of delightful danger. A routine about assisted suicide is obviously underscored with a burning passion for justice and dignity in death, yet cheerfully thrusts the audience's distaste back at them.

The audience of the Wednesday matinée are, obviously, of a certain age and the show is squarely aimed at them. Lots of the jokes are basically "Your grandkids have different pronouns?!?! What's that all about!?!?"

I'll be honest, it's a bit grim and feels like a cheap shot.

And then.

Ben is the master at turning the joke back on the audience. "What's wrong with new pronouns?" he asks. He points out how all the radical lefties of old were fighting for liberation and can't complain now that society has overtaken them. The snake devours its own tail.

Similarly, he has a routine about how taking out the bins is a man's job. It's all a bit old-school and, frankly, a little uncomfortable. The volte-face is magnificent - pointing out that lesbian couples obviously take out the bins, as do non-binary households. So woke! So redeeming! And then he undercuts it with a sexist jibe at his wife.

And that sums up the whole show. He points out folly, turns it back on itself, then mines the dichotomy for laughs. Honestly, it feels a bit equivocating.

Yes, it is mostly funny - but it is also exhausting waiting for Ben to catch up with his own politics.

In many ways, it is the complement to Inside Number 9 playing next door.

Cooper, Morecambe, and Monkhouse were dead to begin with. Perhaps you grew up watching them live at the Palladium, or on grainy VHS tapes, or in microbursts on TikTok. But they got their last live laugh several decades prior to today.

Nevertheless, their comedy lineage remains. Every comedian milking a laugh or mining for a joke owes a huge debt to these men. So they have been reanimated for our pleasure. Just as behind every laughing jester is a crying clown, behind every grin is a bleached skull. What happens in the waiting room between life and death? Do we get to laugh with our pals or are we tormented by their ghosts?

We're granted a peek backstage at an event which never happened. What if these three comedians wound up in the same dingy dressing room before a show? It isn't exactly behind-the-scenes at the Yalta Conference, but we're probably not here for a dramatic retelling; we want to see our old favourites brought back to life. And that's exactly what we get.

90 minutes of pure tribute-act would probably be unbearable. People flock to musical tributes because The Beatles are unlikely to play your neighbourhood pub - but tribute comedians are usually relegated to a few minutes from an impressionist. The actors - Bob Golding as Morecambe, Simon Cartwright as Monkhouse and Damian Williams as Cooper - are uncanny. They perfectly bring their characters to life. They walk a dangerous tightrope between parody and mimic. Perhaps there's a touch of over-reliance on clichéd cadence - but they're able to recreate the jokes in a pitch-perfect way. So who am I to complain?

Finally, the characters ask what is comedy? Should writers be credited or is it the performer who deserves the laugh? Do double-act inevitably lead to resentment? Big questions for our heroes to chew on, but it is more for the audience to mull-over on the journey home. If a joke gets a laugh, it is funny. That's it. When you watch an impressionist tell someone else's joke - and one you've heard a hundred times before - is it still funny? Are you laughing at the recreation or at the memory?

The show wisely avoids an interval - the momentum of the jokes keep us going so you don't quite notice how depressing and ponderous it is becoming. Blokes can't talk about their emotions, so every moment of vulnerability is undercut by a witticism.

If you wore out your (or your parents) tapes, you'll recognise most of the jokes on offer. That's no bad thing; we're here to reminisce. Paul Henry's production has elevated the art of the tribute act to something quite spectacular. It is pure joy to pretend even for just a moment that our old friends are still here with us and still making us laugh.

The Last Laugh in in London for the next 4 weeks and then goes on tour. Well worth seeing.

The Mind Manger is a crap magician dealing with his shitty home life, a tosspot stooge, and an audience full of idiots. Naturally, everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Imagine a very grumpy Tommy Cooper who despises his audience and, against all the evidence to the contrary, is convinced of his own mesmeric ability.

It's a fully interactive show - the whole audience become part of the act in various misconceived ways. Of course, when the magic does work, it is spectacular.

If you can, get front row seats. We had a close up view of all the mishaps and were drawn in to some of the tricks. Joyous to peek just a little bit behind the curtain.

The London run ends in a few days, and then it is off on tour. Absolutely worth grabbing a ticket. Positively daft fun for all ages.

It is exhausting to watch him prance around the stage, screaming at invisible interlocutors, and miming the painfully slow death of a slug being dehydrated by the tears dripping down the face of a crying man. At times he berates us for laughing at a man who is clearly losing his marbles - we're losing them alongside him.

If you can keep up with the tangents (I recommend bringing a small notebook and industrial quantities of Red Bull) then you are in for a complex, silly, and rewarding time. The callbacks are perfectly executed and, despite all the madness, there's a beauty in seeing how far he can take an irreverent thought.

Who would have guessed that we'd end the night with the audience singing Kumbaya or seeing Bill Bailey advertising essential oils? It was delightful to watch Ross Noble deftly avoid being Cancelled through the judicious use of screaming "IT'S SATIRE" after slandering royalty and several other protected species.

I've no idea how much of the show was improvised. There are clear strands of thought and well-rehearsed anecdotes peppered through the ramblings of a raving madman. Perhaps it would be nice to go to a different night of the tour and see what remains. But perhaps that might spoil the magic?

It is a classic, if unsurprising gig. There's an odd segue into Pachelbel's Canon - material which has been mined to extinction by a dozen other musical comedians - but Bill manages to find something new in it. Just about. The rest of the jokes and skits are up to his usual daft standards.

The nice thing about a Bill Bailey gig is that it is exactly what you expect. Some comedians have a very different stage presence compared to their 15 minutes on a panel show. But Bill has been Bill for long enough that he knows how to give the audience an excellent mix of what he does best.

The O2 is, perhaps, too cavernous a venue for stand-up comedy. Even up in the (very) cheap seats, we had an excellent view - albeit of the projection screens. The sound engineering is excellent - words and music were loud and clear. But you do lose something when you can't really see the person on stage. Similarly, the audience interaction is limited to the front row - and anyone who can shout loudly enough to cross the chasm.

Highly recommended for fans of lasers, opera, intricate jokes, a little bit of politics (ladies and gentlemen), and musical pastiches.

You can get tickets for the tour as it travels through the UK and Europe.

If you're unfamiliar with the plot - as I was - it's a remake of a 1970s piece of agit-prop theatre in which the death of a suspect in police custody is investigated. The titular Anarchist died after falling from a 4th floor window. But did he jump or was he pushed? What are the limits of police responsibility? Can you trust what anyone says? Is the cover-up worse than the crime? Doesn't sound like a laugh-a-minute show, does it? And yet...

Every line contains a laugh. The absurdity of trusting the police with anything is mercilessly skewered. As are we - the audience - for treating abuse of power as entertainment. It was amazing to see how a powerful script and top class actors can flip an audience from screaming with laughter to gasping in horror within a scene.

It is hard to describe just how maniacal Daniel Rigby is. The whole show is built around his incredible talents - to the point where it almost feels like the other actors are somewhere between supporting cast and props. He is an absolute lynchpin with complete mastery of physicality and total command of his audience - and he deserves to win every award going. As do the Director and Stage Designer.

Sadly, at times the play does descend into MEN SHOUTING AT EACH OTHER which is a little grating. Don't worry, they let a woman have a few lines in the second act. But they mostly SHOUT AT HER AS WELL. The play also tries to inject as much topicality as it can - with mentions of recent scandals in the world of police and politics. But, at times, it feels a little like a Wikipedia article reeling off facts and figure. The pace is so furious that the righteous fury never has a chance to build.

As is par for the West End, the theatre had plenty of empty seats. Theatres need to realise that £75 a seat just doesn't represent great value for money. Not in a cramped row with no leg room, a long wait for the toilets, and a £4 programme consisting of little more than an IMDb précis of the talent. There's also nothing in the theatre to build anticipation for the show or to transform a visit into an experience.

If you can grab one of the cheap ticket deals, this is 100% worth it. Easily the most shocking set of laughs I've had. As with all satire, I'm never sure if it will act as a flashpoint for action or simply make people think they're doing something just by watching.

Either way, you should see this show, and then visit inquest.org.uk/

So what happens when a hit radio show is transformed into a West End Spectacular? Magic!

Radio 4's Bleak Expectations always surpassed other radio comedies by virtue of actually being funny. It's a long-running parody of all the tropes in Dickens' novels - and Victoriana in general. And now it has a short run at the Criterion Theatre as a two act play. We get a whirlwind of characters getting married, dying, seeking their fortune, being double-crossed, and sent to boarding school. Sound effects (and swans) rain down on them as prance through the plot. Accents are picked up and discarded like yesterday's bread. It is all very silly and a total delight.

Look, it isn't the most sophisticated comedy - and it lacks the detailed technical brilliance of something like The Play That Goes Wrong - but it has a hell of a lot of heart in amongst the mayhem.

The cast are having a whale of a time - giving us a cacophony of silly voices, frenzied dancing, and outrageously bad puns. It is delightful to see actors trying as hard as possible to make each other laugh. The jokes come in thick and fast - if one doesn't land, there's always a dastardly villain's guffaw to cushion the blow.

There's a new narrator every week - we had Adjoa Andoh who obviously relished the opportunity to stick on a moustache and pantomime her way through the proceedings.

It doesn't require you to have listened to even a second of the radio show. There's no back story or deep lore to worry about. Though, devotees of the series will recognise plenty of the characters and their catchphrases.

Sadly, the theatre was half-empty when we saw it. Maybe the radio series doesn't have the broad recognition that's needed to cut through the crowded West End market? The stunt casting of celebrity narrators is a good way to draw a crowd - but perhaps not enough to build excitement.

It's a pity because it is a genuinely funny show.

But, in an age where Netflix will give you endless comedy for a tenner, perhaps it is asking a bit much to expect people to pay up to £70 a ticket? There are cheap seats for £15 which represents excellent value for a night's live entertainment.

So now on to M*A*S*H. It's hailed as a masterpiece of comedy. But, really, it's an exercise in military propaganda.

The first season is genuinely hilarious and, at times, moving. But there's no disguising just how fun it makes war look.

Imagine being so vital to the war effort that you can back-chat your boss, disobey orders, and act like a asshole without repercussions.

You get provided with an endless supply of uncomplaining nurses to sexually harass. What are they going to do? Complain about a handsy surgeon? LOL!

And professionally? You get presented with tough and interesting cases. You have to demonstrate your excellence every day. Sure, there's an occasional death, but mostly you'll be fêted as a lifesaver. Grope another nurse to celebrate!

All your military superiors are oafish buffoons who you can easily manipulate. OK, the occasional bullet whistles by, but you and your friends never suffer anything worse than a hangover. Hell, you're a better surgeon after a few glasses of homebrew!

All sitcoms take place in a heightened reality. MASH does a brilliant job of mixing the mundane with the profane. But, after all the laughs have faded, I find it disturbing how relentlessly pro-war it is.

Famously the TV show lasted longer than the actual war - presumably because it was so much more entertaining.

All comedy shows for the foreseeable future are going to be in the long shadow of The Pandemic. Bloom twists that to her advantage. Yes, there are the silly songs and scatological humour that you know and love her for. But there's a deeper magic at play. Every callback is hung like a Chekhovian Gun - hiding in plain view waiting to shoot you through the heart.

Like Hannah Gadsby's Nannette, this deftly weaves between comedy and tragedy. Just when you think it can't get any darker, she sticks you with the comedy knife and twists until you squeal with laughter. She knows exactly how far to take her confessional, and the exact way to toy with her audience. At times it felt like the audience's hysteria was the only thing keeping us from tears.

At sixty quid a ticket (!) you expect something special - and this was it. Even the occasional gremlins were slain with pitch perfect precision. How? Because Rachel Bloom is a fucking professional.

It's a tough watch.

It obeys all the familiar tropes of a sitcom - a static location, characters drawn in broad strokes, and whacky banter. On paper, it's great. But on screen...

Look, let's get this out of the way - Cheers is pretty funny! We're only on the first 3 seasons, but each episode has a strong comic plot, plenty of chuckles, and general mayhem. Sure, a few of the jokes don't work in the 2020s (the constant "Oh no! The gays!" is a bit off-putting) - but the majority hold up well.

But all the characters are stuck in hell. Sam and Diane are locked in an abusive relationship. I don't just mean that they are emotionally manipulating each other (they are, and it's bad) but that they frequently become physically violent with each other. Not a sitcom-friendly cuff round the ear - but full on raised fists and biting. It is horrible to watch. They're locked in a doomed relationship which spirals down to the grimmest excesses of human misery.

I'm using "Hell" in the literal sense. Cheers is Hades. Cheers is the underworld. Let's look at the evidence.

Sam, is an alcoholic who is doomed to be surrounded by temptation and forced to indulge the alcoholism of others.

Diane is trapped with a sexual predator who uses and discards her. Despite her breeding and education, she is unable to escape from a dive bar where she is constantly bullied by people who she considers her inferiors.

Similarly, Cliff is condemned to have his failures constantly thrust in his face. His sexual inadequacy and humdrum existence are fodder for the other patrons' amusement.

Poor Norm (Norm!). Shackled with a loveless marriage. A slob confronted by people happier and healthier than he. Like Sisyphus, endlessly rolling himself toward the bar.

And Frasier. He could choose any pub in the city, but he returns again and again to the place where his ex-fiancée flaunts her indifference to him and her infatuation with Sam. Would an eagle pecking out his liver be any less painful?

Carla - presumably eternally punished for the sin of pre-marital intercourse - has to spend the majority of her time either pregnant or looking after an ungrateful brood of brats.

The Coach? His mind has gone. He drifts ghostlike through the lives of the other. He understands nothing and spends his days in befuddlement.

What mortal sins did they each commit to be judged so harshly by a loving god?

Someone once said that there was a pronounced difference between the British and American attitude to sitcoms. In British sitcoms, funny things happen to people. In American sitcoms, people say funny things to each other. I don't think this is any more starkly demonstrated than Cheers. It is rare that there is a funny situation, the humour is mostly the characters being relentlessly obnoxious to each other. They're trapped in hell where the only demons are the other lost souls.

In a British sitcom there's nothing funnier than having two people who hate each other trapped together. That's what Red Dwarf is - polar opposites who cannot escape each other. American sitcoms usually makes their characters be friends (like in Friends) or family (like in Modern Family) where there is an expectation that people will stick together.

But Cheers? It's a bar. The patrons, if they had any sense, would leave after the first time Carla threatened them with a switchblade. Or the first time they saw the owner sexually harass a patron. That they don't, points to one inescapable conclusion; they cannot leave.

Is Cheers "The Bad Place"?

When you were about 14. Everything in comedy seems new to you. You start to understand some of the more sophisticated jokes - and the ruder ones. The call-backs to things that you saw as a kid seem incredibly edgy and help you feel more mature. The kudos of knowing a catchphrase makes up for the awkward change in relationships you're going through.

You catch some older comedy, from before you were born. Now you start to understand more - and the idiots at school won't get your obscure references. You catch some stuff that you don't really understand, but laugh anyway to show how grown up you are.

Some of the older stuff isn't funny at all, but you pretend to enjoy it ironically. At least, you think that's what irony is.

As the hormones take their toll, sometimes all you want to do is laugh until you cry. And being able to make people laugh with a ripped-off stand up routine makes you feel special. You convince yourself you could be a stand up if you try. Perhaps your mates act out a couple of sketches which are deeply inspired by what was in the cinema that weekend.

You probably can convince a parent to take you to see a touring stand up comedian. One that you're not normally allowed to watch on TV - but a theatre or arts club lends them legitimacy. Now you understand what canned laughter is trying to replicate. You might even try to cadge an autograph while saying something clichéd like "I've never laughed so hard in my life." it is true - although you've not lived long. What you don't quite appreciate yet is that you'll never laugh with quite the same intensity as you get older.

And one day, a little later in your life, you'll catch a comedian or sitcom on TV who you think is rubbish. It's all rubbish what they put out as comedy these days. And you realise that comedy truly peaked when you were about 14.

When carefree Nyles and reluctant maid of honour Sarah have a chance encounter at a Palm Springs wedding, things get complicated as they are unable to escape the venue, themselves, or each other.

It's almost impossible to review this movie without giving away the twists and turns that it takes. Just know that it is deeply funny in unexpected ways.

It stars the cop from the TV sitcom and the mom from HIMYM (look, just accept that they play the same characters) and has a bunch of "Oh! That's the guy who was in that thing...!" actors.

Maybe it was the two or three cocktails I had before watching - but this is a perfect lockdown comedy. It's smart, silly, and just the right amount of schmaltzy.

It works best if you go into it blind. And, in many ways, isn't that what love is all about?

REG: What's the point of fighting for his right to have babies when he can't have babies?!
FRANCIS: It is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.
REG: Symbolic of his struggle against reality.

It feels a bit... Well... Grim. In 2020 it kinda reeks of transphobia. Lots of people on the Internet agree it's mean spirited and - if you're daft enough to read the comments under the video - lots of people agree with Reg's assessment that Stan cannot be Loretta.

Except... That's not what happens. I hate to ruin things by, y'know, actually watching the film - but to say Reg is a bigot simply isn't true. It ignores the fact that Python didn't often go for a single joke at the expense of a marginalised person.

Witness what happens a few scenes later, when the PFJ think that Brian has died.

REG: I now propose that all seven of these ex-brothers be now entered in the minutes as probationary martyrs to the cause.
LORETTA: I second that, Reg.
REG: Thank you, Loretta. On the nod. Siblings!

How about that! Reg has fully accepted Loretta, doesn't deadname her, and has moved to a more gender-neutral term for his comrades.

Reg may be a pompous arse, but he's an inclusive pompous arse!

By the end of the film - just before the big song and dance - we see how Reg has evolved.

BRIAN: Reg!
REG: Hello, sibling Brian.
BRIAN: Thank God you've come, Reg.
REG: 'We, the People's Front of Judea, brackets, officials, end brackets, do hereby convey our sincere fraternal and sisterly greetings to you, Brian, on this, the occasion of your martyrdom.
BRIAN: What?
REG: Your death will stand as a landmark in the continuing struggle to liberate the parent land from the hands of the Roman Imperialist aggressors, excluding those concerned with drainage, medicine, roads, housing, education, viniculture, and any other Romans contributing to the welfare of Jews of both sexes and hermaphrodites.

Is Reg perfect? No. He makes a series of cruel and insensitive remarks to his friend when she confides in him. Yes, it's played for laughs and - if you're not paying attention - the joke's on Loretta. But look closer.

If Reg can do it, so can you.

​Welcome to 97-hour weeks. Welcome to life and death decisions. Welcome to a constant tsunami of bodily fluids. Welcome to earning less than the hospital parking meter. Wave goodbye to your friends and relationships... Welcome to the life of a junior doctor.

I saw Kay perform his delightfully disgusting parody songs on the Amateur Transplants tour way back in 2008. The humour in this book is much the same - bodily fluids, a healthy disregard for squeamishness, and some big-and-clever swearing.

If you have any mates in the medical profession, you'll have heard similar anecdotes to the ones in the book. Patients sticking stuff up their bums, doctors accidentally chopping off the wrong bits, bosses leaving equipment inside a patient. It is a well-worn seam of comedy.

Don't get me wrong, it is funny - and a stark look at the realities of working in the NHS - but it probably won't teach you anything new. It's a quick read and entertaining enough - although not great for people with a fear of blood.

I'd recommend that you read Blood, Sweat, and Tea - Brian Kellett's amazing account of life working on London's Ambulances. Funnier and more raw.

Comedy - especially stand up comedy - sells us the lie that the comedian comes on stage and makes up all the jokes on the spot. Sure, it's obvious there's a loose structure, but the wild and crazy tangents, riffing from the audience, and chaotic nature make it looks improvised. It's not. Not remotely. Stand up comedy is a rehearsed performance and - as anyone who has seen a comedian repeat the same joke again and again - is more like an illusion than actual magic.

Which brings me on to Lost Voice Guy. Take a listen to him on Richard Herring's podcast:

What I find fascinating is that the comedian has all of his quips on an iPad in front of him. When he wants to tell a joke, he hits the correct button and Text-To-Speech reads it aloud. In the abstract, it's no different from any other comedian remembering a pile of jokes and trotting them out one after the other. Indeed, if you ever see Tim Vine live, he often has a few scraps of paper with him on which are written his newest jokes.

Yet, almost viscerally, I feel that Last Voice Guy is "cheating". It's like going to a theatre to see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform live - only to be shown a DVD of their performance. The performance somehow feels cheapened by not seeing it "live".

There's no doubt that Lost Voice Guy is hugely funny. But what is it about my brain which celebrates remembering a joke, and yet diminishes the effort of having an computer read a pre-composed gag?

If you have the time, watch Stewart Lee (a comedian who scribbles his latest thoughts on his hands) talking about the fantasy of stand-up being improvised. It's an hour long, but well worth it.

Is Richard Herring the son of a god he doesn't believe in? He may not be the Messiah, but he is a very funny boy.

For this long time apathist, none of His arguments were very new - the Bible is inconsistent, God is petty, etc. - but the sheer enthusiasm and obvious joy He brings drew huge laughs from the audience.

The show is unremittingly funny - weaving skilfully between observational comedy and pure scatological filth. Something for everyone, then.

The only weak point, I felt, was the ending. I'm not sure whether He lost the courage of His convictions, or it was the abrupt change of pace. As it was, it was merely hilarious, rather than being side-splitting.

If you get a chance this week - do go and see the show in London. If you live in the wilderness, he's taking the show around the country.

I'm not saying I'm a better comedian than Richard Herring. That's for other people to say... - Terence Eden

If I were a superior comedian, this is what I'd change about Herring's obviously rubbish show.

Bollocks. He's a professional funny man and I fiddle with phones for a living. Go see his show.