No......just...no.

I'm not going to be funny this week. I simply can't do it. My cat died, the milk's gone off, I've a flat tire on my bicycle, my stock has plummeted, I went to look for some lint in my bellybutton and there was none, there's a fly in my ointment and in my soup, the glass if half full alright but my mate just backwashed it and he has cooties, all the time Aslan's 'Crazy World' is stuck in my head. It's a very bad time for me.

No laughing matter folks. Stop snickering. These maybe the tears of a clown, but they are just as valid as the tears of any other circus employee. You think it's all fun and games for me, having a nice week to write the column, thinking up of stuff to say then typing, doing the word count, then typing some more, and a little more. And then a small bit more. It's hard graft.

Nothing happened this week even remotely funny. I didn't notice anything positive or uplifting or joyous or worthy of mention. It was a terrible week. I can normally scan the 24 hour news channels for some heartening news. If you edit all those life affirming 'And finally…' segments at the end of hour together you can have a good stint of cheery good tidings. The stories are usually about grannies finding a legendary rock star's cod piece in their attic or a houshold pet getting rescued from inside another household pet; generally happy occasions that make you glad to be of this earth.

This week was grim. There wasn't even any Siamese babies successfully separated in a far flung country. In fact, I saw on TV how they sowed two Siamese babies back together for being too much of a nuisance to look after when separate. Grim viewing, especially after watching the two hour TV3 special 'When Bears Attack Cuter Animals While Simultaneously Involved In Some Of The Worlds' Deadliest Police Chases'. I could find no solace in the TV or the wider world this week.

Home life was equally dispiriting. I rarely reveal personal details here, but the torrid state of my domestic affairs has left me with no choice. I have begun to suspect that my other half is cheating on me with one of my closest confidant, my imaginary friend Milko, whom I myself had to wrestle away from the clutches of Sally from Home and Away some fifteen years ago. What a predicament: girlfriend running off with imaginary friend. And he's not half as funny as me.

Really do you expect me to be humorous under this strain? I'm supposed to just turn it on and off like a tap? You think it's reasonable to assume that I can conjure up with top quality jokes in an ad hoc manner, like, say, "What's the first sign of madness? Suggs walk up your driveway."? Okay so I did it that time, but that doesn't detract from my position of being too down in the dumps to be funny.

And besides it's no time for humour. There are problems everywhere in the world and you want to just laugh away, happy out, forget about your worries and pretend everything is going to be fine. "Oh I'll read this column. It's funny, and I'll get a big laugh and then go eat a biscuit." God you people make me sick. It's your duty as a member of the human race to avoid silly meandering rubbish like this column and use your time on this earth to do something useful. Now go on, get lost. I've got important things to be doing. Sing 'Crazy World' for a while being a top priority.

The Zeitghost