Never interrupt a delightful lady, even when you're supposed to

Like many of my comedy and literary mates, I spend much of my offstage time fearing that one day I will be found out, exposed as a fraud, a fake, a chancer, not funny at all. Perhaps I was bullied by a teacher.

"Explain to us please, Brigstocke, the process of longshore drift . . ."

"Can't, sir."

"Oh you can't?"

"Haven't covered that yet, sir."

"You're a worm, Brigstocke. What are you?"

"Worm, sir."

It was only the corduroy of his jacket which prevented him from exploding.

I did have that teacher, but that isn't why I fear I might be sent back to the start of the race. It comes from the admiration I feel for so many of the people I work with. They seem unattainably funny, unreachably erudite, gifted with understanding and clarity that I will never achieve.

I am at the Hay Literary Festival. And I’m not making life easy for myself. I’ve been walking among literary giants, journalistic warriors and those who take intellectual curiosity to new and dizzying heights with a copy of Littlejohn's Britain.

Witnessing Richard Littlejohn trying to form an argument is like watching a duckling failing to hop up on to a curb. He keeps cheeping and running at it from the same point and every time he thinks his webbed foot has found purchase, he slips back into the gutter. I am quite sure that Littlejohn never worries about being found out or exposed as a fake or a chancer.

As it turned out, I had no need to be scared. My stand-up show went very well. The audience were a delight. They laughed in all the right places and clapped at the end. The only worthy review a comic can get is that which is demonstrated right there in the room. No one shouted charlatan or produced research materials that would render the position which many of my gags come from as absurd or ill thought out. When I did my material about the benefits and inevitability of immigration the laughter was solid and keen, which isn’t always the case (Essex, Kent). I pointed out that when it comes to turning up in other people’s countries behaving like pricks, Britain has got form. The audience seemed delighted. The Brits love a bit of self-criticism and I’m happy to deliver.

I also performed in a recording of Just a Minute with the wonderfully bizarre Nicholas Parsons - his mind is quite other. But whenever I buzzed to challenge Maureen Lipman or Pam Ayres, the crowd booed gently and looked aghast that a relative youngster would have the nerve to interrupt these delightful ladies before they had been allowed to finish. I wanted to point out that I was just following the rules of the game: if they hesitate, repeat or deviate it's my duty to ring the bell and win a point. In any case, there's no room for sentimentality in this gladiatorial arena.

Watching David Miliband artfully fending off criticism of the government’s woefully

slow response to climate change, I thought he seems delightful, trustworthy and keen. Or maybe he is just a politician who is good at his job. Either way, he will go far. He seemed frustrated by the lack of action, which is odd considering he is in a position to change it. Perhaps he will.

I also watched Richard Dawkins taking the fight to the religions. He should watch himself. If it all kicks off he's in trouble. Science might have the ability to make the weapons for the ultimate showdown, but only the faithful have shown that they would be willing to use them.

The rain has stopped. Hay is lovely and I haven't been found out yet. I'm aware that people nearby must think I look busy - writing for the New Statesman, no less.

Marcus Brigstocke

Julian Clary is away

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