And the award goes to…

Well, I have to admit that, from our rather shabby little table at the back of the auditorium, I was left nothing short of agog at this year's British So-Called-Comedy Awards. It's not what you do, it's who you know, innit? (I shall pause here, dear reader, and brew myself a peppermint and camomile before I splurt something unfortunate onto this blog.)

There – back now. Where was I? Oh yes – the risible BCAs. Oh dear, as I once said to Barry Chuckle as the boys were just starting out, Oh dear. I'm not saying that Clarkie doesn't deserve some sort of accolade (for perseverance, if nothing else) but did he once mention the inspiration for his most memorable character, the irascible old codger Compo? He did not, and I must say that by the end of his gut-wrenchingly gushing little homily I was beginning to wish I hadn't worn my Wellingtons and gardening Tweeds to the event.

Was that the nadir of the evening? I'm afraid not, and truth, the old leveller, must out. Two episodes, I'm afraid, drag the event down into the 'not comfortably remembered category' (where it will sit grimly alongside 'the incident with Tarby's dentures and the port-a-loo' and 'the day Ems found Ken's hairbrush in my back passage'). First, there was the minor scuffle with Roisin Conaty after Noel mistook her for Pamela Stephenson and demanded a Foxtrot – at least that's what it sounded like through the commotion that had engulfed them when the bearded one made his initial lunge. Second was my annoyance and discomfiture to find that Noel Fielding, in the single most hilarious moment of his otherwise wholly drab and unnecessarily overinflated comedy career, had filled my Wellingtons with a rather unpleasant concoction of liquid and semi-solid matter. It was only my quick thinking that left me able to walk out of the venue with a degree of dignity. The same, to my shame I must admit, cannot be said for Jimmy Cricket, last seen squelching his way rather forlornly out of the O2 towards Stratford tube station.