April is the cruellest month for anybody who despairs at the state of contemporary humour. Where are the Ealing comedies of our time, the Carry On films, where is the P.G. Wodehouse, the Evelyn Waugh, or the Tom Wolfe of today? April is cruel because it is the month of a display of vulgarity and smut labelled comedy which demonstrates the sad gulf between real humour and what nowadays passes for it.