THE best comedies are those that are closest to home. Things that make you laugh either do so because the characters remind you of someone, or the situations are those you have been in yourself.

Unfortunately my life mirrors a cross between the Royle Family and Phoenix Nights.

I somehow manage to lead a farcical existence surrounded by characters straight out of sitcoms. And either they are doing it just to wind me up, or they are completely unaware of the comedy value they are providing.

But what can also amuse, can also frustrate. Novelty values are fleeting and although I can find humour in certain situations, while I am actually in them, I soon become irritable.

Family dos are the very best example of the fine line between pleasure and pain.

Last Sunday I was invited to the Christening by a cousin I very rarely see. I didn't even know she was pregnant, never mind at the stage to duck her child's head under the water and welcome him into God's extended family -- the vicar's phrase not mine.

Course I'm presuming that's what the vicar said, because I actually missed the Christening itself.

I had been up until the wee hours the night before under much duress from the Long Suffering Marjorie and her pal.

I had stressed the fact that I had a long journey ahead of me the next day (the church was somewhere in Glossop) and wanted to set off early.

It fell on deaf ears. By the time I had actually woken up, baby Jordan was probably on his second ducking.

There was a time for a quick shower, but no time for a badly-needed shave or to run an iron over a shirt.

By the time I was ready to go, it looked like I had mugged Worzel Gummidge for his clothes.

As I arrived in Glossop (just outside Hyde in Greater Manchester) the church service was over. The furious Folks barked directions at me to the Working Men's Club over the mobile phone, but of course I got lost.

When I eventually arrived at Acres Lane Working Men's Club, the guests were halfway through the potato-pie and red cabbage buffet, that makes all northern dos great.

If I wasn't quick, my cousin warned me with earnest, it would all be gone because the pie-man dropped the first lot on the dance floor when he walked in.

After the ample lunch the DJ started up again, and could have been straight from a Peter Kay sketch. The bar stewards had been forced to rope off the tiny area where the potato pie had spilled onto the floor, and in between every other song, DJ Dave (took him hours to think of that!) was forced to warn people "mind out for the pie. Don't slip on the pie," before launching into Agadoo.

It's hard to believe that people actually want such entertainment at their dos, but people were loving it.

The dance floor was rarely empty (all minding the pie of course), and there was even a raft of people queuing up to murder their favourite songs on the karaoke.

At the time, bearing in mind the gigantic headache I was harbouring and the fact aunties that probably weren't even my aunties were coming up to me telling me I had "shot up", it was a surreal nightmare.

But with the benefit of a week's hindsight, it was a comical slice of northern life. All the family dos I have been to follow this same pattern, and programmes like Phoenix Nights have since picked up on that.

Unfortunately the characters in the real-life version are blissfully unaware they are ripe for ridicule.

Dads still dance like dads, mums fuss and talk nonsense and the leery uncle drinks a skin-full and tries it on with your girlfriend.

There were even kids there sliding on their knees, right into the potato pie.

I can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible.