Divorced from a wife, who’d moaned about me spending all my time running,
and when recovering from that, writing, I, fed up of ploughing a lonely furrow,
joined budding comics, singers and poets at an ‘open mic’ event in the backroom
of The Bashful Bull, a quaint pub in the village of Much Hoole-in-the-Marrow.

It was run by Brian, who boasted about his degree in Comical Studies.

Unfortunately, he remembered me from school, as 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, strutting about,
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 bravely read my silly poem,
Oh, where is Cupid? About a maiden, called 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 sexy 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 in my tracksuit bottoms,
which I left concealed under a bush.

I forgave her, for the following week,
when I reached the last mile of the aforementioned race,
the culmination of all that training, with a slender lead, 
I hit a wall of pain, then miraculously heard the little bird twitter, 
or one of her relations, maybe a Thrush,
and went onto win in a sprint finish, for,
despite what Big Brian said, I couldn’t half shift.

So, 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.

A talent scout from Bertram Basslethwaite’s Travelling Circus was watching.
Relaxing after a week entertaining children under a marquee on the common,
he signed me up as an agile clown.

After assuring him I used to run, he commented, ‘’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,
Bertram encourages the kids to join in the clowning 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,
and actually learn how to be funny.