I mean we all like a laugh don’t we? What’s wrong with laughing. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with laughing. Nothing.

So there we were, three rows back at Count Arthur Strong’s show at Norwich Playhouse all laughing. Three chums at a comedy gig. Glover, Clavane and Roberts. All laughing. I mean what’s wrong with that? Nothing.

As Count Arthur launched into another particularly ridiculous and hilarious routine Mr Clavane, who was sat next to me, was mid slurp into his pint of beer. He erupted into laughter spraying a hearty gobfull of ale everywhere. Over me, over the woman in front of me plus the completely bald guy one along from her.

That’s three people doused in beer. Quite an achievement.

By the time both these people in front of me had wiped their necks and turned round in puzzlement, disgust and disbelief, Clavane had put his beer down and was now staring fixedly at the stage. The picture of innocence.

So who was it in the box seat for their accusatory gaze? Moi. That’s who.

Fixed right in the cross hairs of their steely glare I was. Their stern and undiluted chagrin directed unambiguously in my direction.

Mortified with embarrassment but also seething with pique at the goddamn injustice of it all was how I watched the rest of the show.

What’s wrong with laughing? Nothing. Unless, that is, you spray the contents of your mouth over complete strangers and then blame a completely innocent bystander to boot. Who actually also happens to be also soaked in a combination of your half consumed tipple and spittle.

What is it about the British nature that means embarrassment that prevents us from pointing the finger when it’s demanded. “It was him”, I wanted to scream. But didn’t, obviously.

I suppose I should be used to taking the rap. The other common occurrence of this is when I’m in social situations with my wife.

Such a gentle soul. Such a quietly beautiful person. Until she farts that is. Let me tell you this. We’re not talking about things being a little whiffy.

Such is the stench that emanates you would be forgiven for thinking that every man hole cover, every drain, in fact every outlet in Colchester’s entire sewage system had been simultaneously prised up and the resultant pong concentrated into one discrete orifice.

People simply cannot conceive that such a pungent odour could emanate from such a sweet person. So when one of these notorious depth charges is released under cover of delicate lingerie, there we all stand, no-one saying a word, whilst I feel the collective verdict of guilt not being so much placed on my shoulders as dropped like cannonball.

So in the dock of life my friends, I ask, is it innocent until proven guilty? You’re having a laugh.