Is it possible to laugh a fellow human creature into bed? And if it is, what exactly do you do once you've got them there? Have you ever tried maintaining an erection while your potential conquest rolls around with mirth, pointing at you and holding their painful sides? I have and I found the whole experience quite troubling.
Do those of a humorous persuasion score with more frequency? The statistics speak for themselves. Comedy great Les Dawson slept with over 14,000 women during his lifetime (and at least two after, he was that good). Whereas battlefield historian Dan Snow is still considered a partial virgin (I've seen the footage Dan, no one can consider that sex).
There is a very simple method of answering this question. As you have witnessed, this article had already contained a raft of hilarious moments and there are many, many more to come. By its conclusion, will you have laughed so heartily that you feel compelled to join me in some form of fleshy union? Say a ‘Mexican Handbag' or the legendary ‘Tadpole Hat'? Or, as so often happens, will you pass through the seven distinct stages of being propositioned by me (shock, nausea, hilarity, anger, hunger, throwing things and gassiness)? We shall see.
One of the first acronyms that any British infant learns is GSOH.
‘Hey Cindy, I saw you dancing with Biff at the Sock Hop, is he dreamy?'
That sort of thing. A GSOH is a vital component in seeking out a suitable mate. Why? Because what's the alternative? I'll tell you: BSOH. I mean, what's that? Can that even be considered an acronym? It's terrible. It has no rhythm, no panache, no flair. It's a really appalling acronym that just sits there on the page like a large, breaded turd at a christening. Shocking.
But also, it's fairly obvious, isn't it? How many dating profiles have you stumbled across which say: ‘No sense of humour please. Nothing. No joy, no hope, no tittering. Just a stony-faced wall of mild regret. Oh and no fatties'. People with absolutely no sense of humour tend to be either career serial killers or those people who hand out towels at the gym. Sometimes they overlap. That's when the horror truly starts.
OK, so you obviously need to possess the ability to raise a smile in order to prevent potential dates running to the toilet and squeezing through a tiny window that's above the cistern. But are there any occasions when that's all you need? No interesting stories, no skill at climbing a rope really fast, no sublime frittata that you can whip up in mere minutes? Just a series of quickfire gags that lead to sloppy, indistinct intercourse?
Surely those who can answer this are the people (like myself) who work in the comedy trenches. We make up funny for a living, so does that attribute increase our chances of getting a bit of the old ‘Shrek and a bloodhound's muzzle meeting in a pink, mossy swamp', as Tennyson dubbed it?
Let me answer that with another question. Get out, really, a Shetland pony? Let me further answer that with a more pertinent question. Have you ever met anyone who works in the comedy industry? Most gatherings of those who move in such circles is reminiscent of the documentary Shoah with all the fun bits removed.
Not only are all people involved in comedy damaged beyond redemption, you HAVE to be damaged to work in comedy. Most of us were habitually abused by classmates, family members and sundry bus drivers. Comedy wasn't an innate gift, it was a desperate defence mechanism designed to stave off getting your head stuffed into a urinal for a few precious seconds. (Ask any comedy professional what their nickname at school was and I guarantee it was either ‘Stumpy', ‘Numb Nuts' or ‘Tinkle Fingers').
All that comedy didn't dwell within us, propagated by joy. It spewed out of us in panicked torrents, fuelled by fear. We don't entice potential conquests into our realm by a frivolous collection of delicious bon mots, but rather we repel any suitors by reeking of desperation and Frey Bentos.
Yes, we can turn it on to impress a member of the opposite sex and run through our tight tens and greatest hits to make someone grin and play with their hair, but before the end of the evening we will all be curled up on the floor in the foetal position, weeping and screaming ‘DADDY, WHY DIDN'T YOU BUY ME THAT BOOK ABOUT HERONS'. That's the comedy writer guarantee.
Plus, that stuff is exhausting. Those kind of humorous shenanigans might get you midway through a date, but eventually you have to stop and regroup. You can't just solidly bring the yuk yuks for four solid hours unless you're Robin Williams. And who wants to sleep with Robin Williams? No one, that's who.
The supermodels of this world don't gravitate towards humorists. They pick people like David Copperfield, who perpetually looks like he's in a cheap mid-transformation scene from the film Teen Wolf IV: Gettin' Hairy. Or they shack up with Billy Joel, a man that resembles Lovejoy's older, fatter, more special cousin. Do those people seem funny? I religiously watched Billy Joel: Live in Long Island on VHS between 1984 and 1985 and I didn't laugh once.
Why do these artistes succeed where funny types fail? Because they have a tangible talent. They are men who play the piano and sing songs about pianos and the men who play pianos. Or they cause shizzle to disappear. Making people laugh is not a tangible talent because everyone thinks they can do it and openly resent anyone who tries to make a living from it. (I was introduced to a friend's wife as a comedy writer and she said, ‘Oh yeah? Make me laugh. Tell me a joke. Come on, let's see you be funny' angrily, while poking me viciously in the nipple).
But then again, I got lucky. I met someone on the strength of something I wrote and we fell in love with each other. I'm funny, she's funny. We take it in turns to be the laugher and the laughee. I'm sure I let some zingers fly on our first date and I hope she responded in the conventional way, but at no point did I think, ‘Great, she's laughing, a roll in the hay is certainly on the cards' because only a tool would think that. And tools aren't funny. They're tools.
People who set out to have sex with someone, anyone, don't use comedy as a technique, they use persistence. Every sleazebag I have known just approaches every single woman who comes into view until they find someone vaguely interested.
So I return to in inaugural question. Can you laugh someone into bed? Did I laugh you, dear reader, into bed through the medium of this article, or is it a fallacy? That's fine, you don't have to answer. That ‘suddenly wearing cold diarrhoea like some sort of headscarf' expression on your face, which I now look upon as an old familiar friend, says it all.
No, you need to find someone who laughs at you and someone you enjoy laughing at. And if they are able to climb a rope really fast, that's just gravy.