Flicking through the TV channels yesterday I came across an old Fawlty Towers episode in which Basil goose-steps in front of a party of Germans tourists while urging hotel guests not to mention the war.

The show was voted top comedy series of all time in 2000 by the British Film Institute.

What a difference 18 years have made.

Had John Cleese written that series today he would probably be branded a xenophobe and hounded into obscurity.

No TV company today would risk Eric and Ernie sharing a bed on prime time television or ridiculing Boycie’s impotence as Del Boy did in Fools and Horses. Two of the most popular shows ever to be screened on UK TV.

So what happened to Britain’s famous sense of humour?

There was a time we used humour to get us through any crisis.

One of the funniest stories I ever heard was Bob Monkhouse’s anecdote about the moment he learned he had terminal cancer.

“How long have I got to live?” Bob asked.

“About 10,” replied the consultant.

“Ten what...weeks, months, years?”

“Nine, eight, seven, six...”

That’s how Mr Monkhouse dealt with his own mortality.

Humour was Britain’s stock in trade. It sustained us through wars, disasters, tragedy and depression.

We were undisputed world champions of comedy – there wasn’t a calamity we couldn’t handle with humour.

I had a nervous breakdown in my mid 20s and had it not been for the endless joshing of my mates I doubt I would have ever smiled again.

So, when did we all become so sensitive?

It’s impossible these days to find a topic that doesn’t offend someone. We can work ourselves into a lather about anything, even poor old Santa has to contain his jollity with kids for fear of unpleasant accusations.

I recently wrote a light-hearted article about two ducks and received a very frosty comment for my ‘insensitivity’. How humourless do you have to be to take offence on behalf of a duck?

So, watch what you say this Christmas. Avoid talking about anything remotely funny. Apologise a lot and never laugh in company.

Remember, one person’s humour is another person’s neurosis.

Do not, under any circumstances, mention the war.

NO SILENT NIGHT FOR DOG TRAINERS

If diamonds are a girl’s best friend why is man’s best friend a dog?

The last thing I need for Christmas is another dog.

I spend my life working with dozens of them. I even dream in Beagle and no matter how smart I dress whenever I enter a room people always sniff the underside of their shoes.

My personal fragrance is Labrador with a hint of terrier.

I can never attend a party without being ambushed by an owner telling me how wonderful their dog is before finally reaching the ‘but’.

‘He’s a really lovely dog but...he’s killed next door’s cat’ or ‘he’s a really lovely dog but...he’s attacked the vicar’, or ‘he’s a really lovely dog but...he’s peed on the sofa’.

I’m then expected to diagnose the problem between the vol-au-vents and Auld Lang Syne.

I used to tell people I was a gravedigger just to get a quiet drink and a mince pie but I gave that up after our dog ran past the French windows carrying a shinbone.

Go to any dinner party as an accountant and the night’s your own but if people discover you’re a dog trainer you’re doomed.

You’ll still be sipping your soup when the tiramisu arrives.

People can’t resist talking about their dogs. Owners are potty about them.

I actually had a lady tell me my dog column was the first thing she reads every week in the Guardian. When I asked what breed of dog she owned she said: ‘I don’t have one’.

You know what I’m going to do this Christmas? I’m going to take Cobra, my black Lab, to parties and refer all questions to him.

He’ll do anything for an amuse-bouche.

SAVE ME FROM A BUG CALLED ERIC

You know what I’d like most for Christmas? A product that kills just one per cent of household germs.

I’m not bothered about the remaining 99 per cent as we’ve got cupboards full of stuff to do that.

It’s that last remaining germ that worries me.

It simply cannot be destroyed. It must be the Arnold Schwarzenegger of microbes.

You could use a flame-thrower on your kitchen surfaces and the damn thing still would still be there.

Proctor and Gamble had products guaranteed to remove the stains from a collier’s underwear but they couldn’t eradicate this bug.

I wonder what it’s called?

A germ of such magnitude must have a name don’t you think?

It’s probably Thor or Titan or something of that ilk. You couldn’t have a super bug called Eric could you?

Microbe Rights people would start a campaign to save it with ‘Don’t bug Eric’ banners. They’d be accosting you in town centres to get you to sign a petition Personally, I want to kill the damn bug not adopt it. I don’t want to send a pound to some charity with the promise of a birthday card from ‘Eric the Bug’.

Despite enormous strides made in household hygiene, Eric’s proving to be a very resilient character.

You don’t suppose he’s related to that calorie they can’t remove from a can of Diet Coke do you?

By Guardian columnist Vic Barlow