Vicky Ewan: Humour me - I really do appreciate a GSoH

Like many people – including those not playing the dating game – I appreciate a Good Sense of Humour (GSoH).

That is a broad term that covers all manner of evils, of course, and I should be more specific: I don’t greatly enjoy physical comedy; unlike my husband, who is uproariously entertained by the sort of mishaps that thrust Jeremy Beadle into the limelight as presenter of You’ve Been Framed.

I am not amused by slapstick shenanigans where individuals suffer misfortunes that I consider to be akin to near-death experiences.

As the laughter finally dies away in other corners of the room, I can be heard anxiously murmuring my concern about the status of the victim once the camera stopped rolling: alive? Dead? Egregiously maimed?

It is to be hoped that the promised £250 fee received by those (un)lucky enough to be featured isn’t allocated to the payment of medical bills.

I sometimes wonder whether it’s a missing element in me, this inability to find humour in a genre by which others are so resoundingly enthralled – but I don’t suppose my aversion will fade now.

Conversely, bombard me with examples of observational comedy and artful word play, and I’m likely to be found rolling in the aisles.

Lest you think my tastes rather highfalutin, I should admit that I have never giggled so uncontrollably and consistently over anything as the story of when Piglet meets a Heffalump in the Winnie the Pooh books – reading it aloud to my children was an impossible task and I would never reach the end without being breathless, tearful and almost inaudibly squeaky-voiced – much like the eponymous hero.

I’m still not convinced any of my offspring heard the crux of the tale; they certainly didn’t laugh as much as I did.

But I suppose that’s part of the issue, isn’t it?

Humour is subjective. For every Lee Evans, whose rubber-faced, larger-than-life antics have convulsed audiences for years, you have a Sean Lock – sorely missed – disarming crowds with his monotonal, wry self-deprecation; for every gambol across the stage with Michael McIntyre as he throws out his arms to accept the adulation of the audience, you have an intimate peek inside the life of Sarah Millican – there is no one-size-fits-all of comedy.

As for me, I have discovered I cannot tell a joke.

For a start, I barely remember the script, no matter how amusing I find it.

Should I survive this litmus test, however, repeating the joke becomes an ordeal from which neither I nor my intended audience emerges unscathed; anticipating the ordeal, my skin prickles, my lips quiver and my hands shake.

Inside my head, I have a fair idea of what I want to say as I launch myself off the edge of the comedy cliff.

Once I have begun to plummet, though, things accelerate dangerously, and a fatal impact is inescapable.

I overthink the language to use, I lose my way, I feel compelled to stop and explain bits that clearly didn’t need further explanation… by the time I reach the punchline, the audience, who had possibly been feigning interest from the second sentence, will be as flummoxed as I am to whether I have, in fact, delivered a joke.

Cue a couple of barks of forced laughter, the exchanging of some brow-furrowing glances, and an inevitable cheek-reddening from me, accompanied by an interminably long period of awkwardness as someone – anyone – casts around for something – anything – to say.

I think I lack the basic comic timing and delivery that is essential to success, and although I may be laughed at, sadly it’s not in a good way, which I why I was disproportionately alarmed when my friend, who had been engaged by a local secondary school to conduct mock interviews for those approaching school-leaving age, regaled me with the details of one noteworthy appointment.

It was with a young lady who had conducted herself with perfect poise throughout the process, to the extent that, in an attempt to put her through her paces as the interview drew to a close, my friend instructed her to tell a joke – which task she managed to execute with equal aplomb.

Since then, I have felt it is my mission to have one joke under my belt: short and sweet and memorable enough to survive even my inadequate abilities.

A few years ago, I happened to see a news article about the nation’s annual best joke awards.

Funnily enough – or not – I don’t remember which entry received the accolade of first prize, but I immediately felt an alliance with the second-place joke: it was short, undeniably sweet, and sure to raise a smile; it’s been my go-to joke ever since.

With regard to the issues of copyright infringement, I had better not repeat it in print, but should you run into me, I will summon up the courage to share it with you.

Please ignore the obvious signs of terror emanating from my person, and humour me; after all, laughter is the best medicine.