WHEN it came to transferring his autobiography, Crying With Laughter,

from printed hardback page to cassette tape last year, Bob Monkhouse had

what he can now, with commendable understatement, describe as a small

problem. ''On the Sunday before I was due to record the book's

shrivelled spoken version, reduced from 100,000 words to 28,000, I

suffered what doctors call an infarction: some brain cells hopped it.''

Bob was left with minor stroke symptoms. ''My lower lip was hanging

down somewhere over my right nipple, which meant that when I spoke, I'd

occasionally be biting my lip when it slipped inside my mouth. But my

speech and appearance were back to normal by the Wednesday. In fact, I

did an after-dinner speech at a charity do that night, and covered any

problems by pretending I was drunk.''

What a stand-up trouper, I'm thinking as, with consummate timing, the

by-now-fully-recovered Bob delivers his punchline. ''I had a brain

scan,'' he says. ''But . . . nothing showed up.''

Laughing in death's face. Good comedians do. Bob Monkhouse is good. A

master of tone, timing, delivery. A Trojan, forever churning out gags. A

born story-teller, as his autobiography attests.

Not that it's always been politically correct to admit one's

admiration for Bob, though. He that hath publicly oiled the cogs of the

Tory Party machine . . .

''I was active 10 years ago in supporting Mrs Thatcher in the middle

of her administration because I thought I had good reason to be

confident in the Government,'' says Bob. ''I felt I could do good by

lending support to what I thought were good policies.''

No longer. ''That role numbed my ability to snipe, and I was

subsequently so disappointed by all politicians that I have fallen into

being completely apolitical. I take an observational stance. I can't

support any attitude or movement because they all have negative points.

I'm a critic and mocker of politics.''

Above all, Bob is a critic of comedy. He's currently half-way through

a scholarly treatise on the topic: Funny For Money should be published

next year. Simultaneously, Bob will pilot a Funny For Money BBC TV

series, interviewing comics one-to-one, ''exploring the comedy mind. Why

comedians do what they do. What they think. Do they think at all?''

Bob does.

''Comedy was always funnier if it was performed by someone who looked

or acted funny . . . if they embodied a human failing in a consistent

and convincing way.''

What are your failings?

''I'm a silly person, I do silly things. I'm light-hearted. But I'm a

very vulnerable person. I'm easily dismayed and put out of countenance

by things in the news. Yet when things annoy me and I start ranting,

I'll turn it into a comic rage.

''I don't have the wonderful intellectual range and vocabulary of Ben

Elton, so while I believe in truth in comedy, mine is disguised. I'll

make my points with a phrasing that will, hopefully, be interrupted by

laughter. I'm not imposing my views on an audience, but I hope they

sense the honesty behind it.''

Bob strives honestly to notecomedy developments.

''Since I was quite small, I've made a determined effort to keep up

with new comedians. The ones who've come along and claimed public

attention and kept it, and the ones who've dwindled and dropped off the

twig as the public have decided what they will or won't tolerate. I'm as

familiar with Harry Hall, Fred MacAulay, and Dominic Holland as with

more established names.''

Bob hails them; they respect Bob. He's already appeared alongside

younger contenders on Have I Got News For You, and will again on another

new BBC series: Gag Tag, chaired by Jonathan Ross. ''Frank Skinner is

teamed with a comedian from my approximate generation, while my

team-mates are from the new brood, like Tony Hawkes or Greg Proops.''

Additionally, he's completed an in-concert video, Bob Monkhouse

Exposes Himself, and will next year undertake six half-hours of stand-up

for the BBC, plus a national tour in the spring.

''It's the George Burns trick,'' Bob confides. ''You book yourself to

play the Palladium when you're 100 so you're contractually obliged to

stay alive.''

Long may it work.

* Crying With Laughter; Arrow, #4.99.

I'M indebted to Herald reader C. Scott, of Athelstaneford in East

Lothian, for a recent outburst on this organ's letters page. ''When,''

spluttered C. Scott, ''are you going to spare us from the adolescent

witterings of David Belcher and employ a music critic?''

When indeed? I'm the type of adolescent witterer who brings adolescent

wittering into disrepute.

Aye, C. Scott's queryis pungent, urgent. But questions remain, Mr or

Ms Scott -- or may I call you C, C?

By music critic I assume, C, that you mean writer whose musical views

and tastes always coincide entirely with yours. So what music do you

like, C? Which artists? Naturally, when you write again answering these

questions, I'm sure you'll note that the words ''music'', ''artist'',

and ''Runrig'' are wholly incompatible.

And what did I write which gave such offence, prompting you to put

crayon to paper? I haven't slagged the aforementioned Runriggies for . .

. oooh, hours.

But let me assure you, C, that your words will be acted upon. In fact,

they already have, as an accompanying photograph reveals. Yes, your

words are adorning top-quality grey extra-large T-shirts which I'm

selling at #15 each (incl p&p), all profits to the Childrens' Hospice

Association Scotland.

So, C, send your cheque or postal order (made payable to Who Ate All

The Pies) to: David Belcher's Critical T-Shirt, The Herald, 195 Albion

Street, Glasgow, G1 1QP. Remember to tell me what upset you in the first

place, C. Help children; wear it on your chest... get it off your chest.

That goes for all of you. Help me make a mockery of myself! For

charity!