Laughter in the Tree Tops

Wednesday evening.

The Brewery Tap.

A man in his forties.

John Di Placito.

John Di Placito is here at The Tap and, in spite of the fact that he just skipped right on in and over the threshold with a spring in his step, in fancy dress, he’s claiming to be in his forties. Not at all sure that I believe him. There’s no way that a forty-something-year-old has never even tried, as he’s now claiming, a ‘teeny-weeny sample of tomato soup with croutons’. And it’s going a little bit far to arrive in Sudbury, Suffolk, in the middle of nowhere and miles away from the coast, kitted out in your wife’s wetsuit. Yes, we’ve all owned a snorkel and flippers, John, but that was when we were seven years old, and the all-corrupting shops at Felixstowe Beach convinced us that these were essential items for avoiding jellyfish stings – whilst paddling! And you can hardly claim you’ve got post-traumatic stress, not when you didn’t even get as far as ‘dipping your toes into your wife’s birthing pool’. Get yourself a therapist, John, sort it out, and – get that kit off! In your forties? Where’s the evidence? The grey? Your roots?

Just as well Sikita‘s up next. Sikitas with me, with I, Jay Cool. She’s a family historian. And, she’s in deep, stripping right back to her roots, planning a trip down memory lane, ‘a visit to her ancestors in Zimbabwe’! And, I’m right there with her, mapping out her family history in my head. Zimbabwe. Great stone walls. Stone sculptures. Stone games.


She’s back. Sikita’s back, her ‘roots firmly implanted in South London’. She is, after all a true Brit, just a short train trip away from Sudbury, and this is all well and good, because we’re all sitting here laughing ourselves silly. But what’s this?


You think you look like Oprah, Sikita? No, forget ‘Oprah’ – she’s American! Stay here. Stay with us. Last month’s comedians have been and gone. Clayton Harris. Ollie Watson. Matt Bragg. Scott Adams. All gone. Inside. Come on Sikita, sell up! We need you.

But Sikata’s off, hopefully not back to Zimababwe,  and her replacement’s on!

Sean Patrick.


Serotonin. Setralin (*). Sikita?

Sikita, come back! If you have to go, at least leave us with a little boost, a little kick.


The Tap might need Sikita, but Sean needs The Tap. He’s got ‘puss oozing out of his ears’, and his ‘girlfriend’s abandoned him for a threesome with the neighbour’. Tells us he works ‘night shifts with the Samaritans’ feeding on folks woes and sorrows – avoiding the light.

PJ, who recommended this guy? I don’t suppose that your friend Carl Denham, Carl Denham the bloodsucker, had anything to do with it. The dark side is gathering. Or did you rope in one of the undertakers who carted off old-man-one-tooth at our Long Melford venue last week (**)?

Still, there’s nothing like a depressive to give us all a boost. Puts everything into perspective. My hairy-chin-mole, mid-life-hot flushes, cranky knees and thinning coverage. Nothing seems quite so bad anymore. Nothing’s quite so bad in the presence of Sean.


In fact, I feel such elation that I’m beginning to picture myself, myself and Sean, (and, yes, you can come too PJ!) flying up to the tree tops, Twilight style, hand in …. No, no, not hand in hand! With heads in our hands… A head in my hand …

I, Jay Cool, am back. I’m back with my ancestors. I’m Henry VIII. Sean’s Ann Boleyn, and – you PJ? You’re ….

…in The Tap.

‘Another pint, PJ? Aspall’s?’


Who’s on next?’

Martin Westgate?

So why’s that sleazy-underhand-back-stage vegan,
Kahn Johnson, laughing at our man Martin?

Take Jay Cool’s advice, Kahn – it’s time to look at things from another angle!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2017

*If you don’t know what Sertralin is, you haven’t lived!

**Please take a read of:

Images: Photos of comedians taken by Jay Cool; bat photos courtesy of by Creative Commons License.

Please support Suffolk Punch Comedy Club by being at The Brewery Tap, Sudbury, Suffolk on the first Wednesday of every month from 8pm. Free entry. Donations for prostate cancer research welcome.


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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