A WHEEN o year ago, I did twa-three writin fellowships in Glesga, yin efter the ither. I kent nuthin aboot Weegies when I stertit but ye’re no twa meenits in their company ti somebody cracks a joke. Thae jokes arenae set pieces, like “knock knock” or “there wis an Englishman, an Irishman, an a Scotsman”. Naw. They juist happen, like breathin, whin fowk are haen a blether.

Yin lassie wis girnin aboot her faither dotin oan her wee sister, a teenager wha could dae nuthin wrang. The young yin’s aw dolled up fur a nicht oot, skirt up tae her oxters, an bends ower, in front ae the Da, tae luft her bag.

“Better git yer sunglesses oan, Da,” oor storyteller says. “Afore the licht blinds ye.”

I spent maist ae thae years in Glesga kecklin fit tae burst. I waantit tae ken hoo thon wit wisnae yaised in their writin; writin that wis strang an smert, heid-oan wark aboot sair stuff, deprivation, haurd painfu lives. “We kin only dae it whin we talk,” I wis telt. Ma advice wis tae scrieve hoo ye speak or loss the very thing that gits fowk through, their nature an character, haen the wit tae punctur pomposity, tae pit numpties richt, tak the pouer back fae glaikit authority an mak life mair douce, less dour.

Social media’s a mixed blessin, hauf fu o guid sense, hauf fu o haivers. Fowk’re no feart tae thraw aboot awthing. FACT. Opinions haud clout ower information. IMO. Mak a joke tae lichten the mood and ye best hae a cheesie emoji tae haund. LOL. If ye dinnae waant huntit, stey oan the straucht an nerra. There is nae deidpan smiley. Irony sinks like a stane. Ridicule – they ken whaur ye bide. Wisdom there micht be. Wit? No ower muckle. There cannae be. Awbody’s wrang oan the internet, an has tae be telt.

We’ve a stushie gaun oan the noo. BBC Scotland’s gaunae try oot a Scottish Six – the warld news fae whaur we are. Mibbe. Yin rammy’s aboot whither oor ain presenters, producers an journalists are up tae it. Anither yin’s aboot whey bother. Facebook’s beelin. Twitter’s tweetin awa. Us auld yins ken hoo lang this pat’s been cookin. Mibbe fowk should juist read Tom Leonard’s The 6 O’Clock News, fae 1976, then hae a listen tae James Robertson’s The News Where You Are, fae 2014.

The news is gey sair. It’s the natur o the beast. But there’s nae gettin awa fae the haurd times oor yirth, an oor country, are gaun through the noo. Fowk are stervin in the UK, queuin fur haundoots o breid they hinnae siller tae buy. Nae war, famine, or pestilence, caused this. Nor strikes seekin better pey an conditions. It’s aw doon tae the deliberate acts o a British Government thirled tae austerity. Daith by a thoosand cuts.

Oor high streets are stapped wi charity shoaps. Food banks rax tae the hunners. Daith rates stertit risin in 2011. In 2015, they wur 5.4 per cent up oan 2014, gey near 27,000 mair fowk deid (Office for National Statistics). Naebody kin say hoo mony extra bodies wur bereaved, or wull be, that neednae be. No muckle tae laugh aboot there.

Yit humour’s no juist fur fun. Yaised weel, it’s a wey tae fecht. I mind oan 1962, whin Thon Wis The Week Thon Wis brocht political satire burstin oantae oor TV screens. David Frost, Millicent Martin an Bernard Levin got tore intae the numpties o the day. By 1979, it wis Mel Smith, Pamela Stevenson an Rowan Atkinson wi No The 9 O’Clock News. Spittin Image lowped in tae leather the michty fae 1984 tae 1996, an The Thick O It taen ower 2005 tae 2012.

Sleekit, an no sae sleekit, socio-political comment steert up sitcoms an aw. Steptoe An Son played oot dreich poverty in a codependent twasome. Till Daith Us Do Pairt shone a licht oan racism. Yuissless landlords got their dues in Risin Damp and Yes, Minister gied us a luik at the clarty workins o a spoof Westminster.

We could fair yaise thae talents an attitudes the day; programmes tae disempouer the powerfu insteid o poverty porn that pits the buit intae the puir, seik an waebegone. Laughter mends herm, gies speerit tae gang oan. Let’s keckle at the clowns wha either dinnae ken or care that makin fowk go athoot money fur weeks or months, in oor culture, wull kill thum. Let’s git oor giggles fae donnart gowks wha’re let keep billions cooried in pyntless pooches whiles roon aboot

9.7 million bairns ablow five year auld dee every year fae preventable causes (Unicef).

There’s ay somewhaur tae stert, some wey tae pynt up stupidity an pou the sting. Tak the bedroom tax. A brither an sister, oan housin benefit, bidin thegither in a rentit three-apartment hoose widnae pey it. Neither wid twa men, or weemin, if they wur pals, cousins, siblings, total strangers. But a mairrit couple? They’d git telt they hud a spare room. Noo whaur, in oor law, is it laid doon that mairrit fowk maun share a bedroom? I jalouse thons a pleese yersell maitter, no enforceable, mibbes a human richt even.

Plenty mairrit fowk dinnae share a bedroom. Some dinnae even share a bathroom. Some hae separate dressin rooms an aw. But ye cannae huv it baith weys. If the law says mairrit fowk maun sleep thegither in yin bedroom, then aw thae mairrit fowk whit dinnae are breckin it. The polis are ahint haun. Arrests, fae the tap doon, are lang owerdue.

I’m shair Sir Humphrey fae Yes, Prime Minister wid hae nae bother explainin whit wey the government kin force twa fowk tae sleep thegither whin they dinnae waant tae. But he’d shuin hae the PM in a fankle, an the rest o us in knots.

So let’s no be blate. Git aw thon reality dross aff the telly. Gie us back oor humour. If we dinnae laugh, we’ll greet.