pardon me but your sense of humour is in my soup

"How would you like your coffee?" asks the beautiful model girl Polka waitress in Brambles cafe. "With milk or cream?"
I flash my famous fleeting grin.
"I like my coffee the way I like my women," I inform her. "Hot and black."
That old gag.
You know bold readers, it is remarks like this which have ensured that for many years now I remain very much a man alone.
No, seriously.
When is something funny and when is it offensive?
Basil Fawlty whispering in the presence of his German guests, "Don't mention the war," was wickedly hiliarious.
Unless you were German.
Or perhaps especially if you were German.
Some say the secret of humour is to say the unsayable.
But there has to be more to it than that.
Many happy years ago my insane brother Raymond gave me some advice about women.
"There are three golden rules," he explained. "One, they all want it. Two, no means yes. Three, whatever you do, never ever mention sex."
God help me I believed him.
Which brings us to political correctness.
Or the lack thereof.
An Irish civil rights group launched a campaign in Britain some years ago against a product in the shops which they said was demeaning to people from Ireland.
The object in question was a paperweight containing a potato, and labelled: "Irish paperweight, break open in case of famine."
I thought it was a howl.
Not funny for potatoes of course.
But what can you do?
I remember during my days at Trinity College in Dublin seeing a most dramatic placard at a student rag week rally.
The placard related to an IRA terrorist who had died on hunger strike.
It ran:
"Free Bobby Sands... With Every Packet Of Kelloggs Cornflakes."
Another banner at the same gathering read:
"We Will Never Forget You Billy Sands."
Typical undergraduate student humour.
How would you mind them?
I recall thinking at the time that the students holding those placards had a very low life expectancy, ie that they wouldn't live long.
However my days among the politically incorrect university types of Dublin were short lived bold readers.
For I was expelled from Trinity College in a sex scandal.
I wasn't getting any.
And they take a particularly dim view of that at Trinners.
Ah memories.
Like the moon on the water and all that.
But we're talking about comedy not tragedy.
Polka is back with a refill.
And I have delighted you enough for one evening.
Keep well noble travellers of the internet.
Someday we shall laugh again.