When Barry Chuckle, one half of the Chuckle Brothers died in August 2018, Paul Chuckle, the other half, was hit hard.
The pair were more than showbusiness brothers, they were real-life brothers, as their surname suggests, and blood is thicker than chuckling, as the saying goes.
At first, chuckling was unthinkable. A complete no-no. Verboten.
Every time Paul opened his eyes in the morning, he would think of his dead partner, and weep silently until he could drag himself out of his bed, bus shelter, shop doorway or telephone box, depending on where he'd spent the night. Often, it was his coal bunker.
As they say, though, 'Time is the great healer', and Paul gradually began to smile, inwardly at first, then on the outside, and, before long, he was even able to titter.
The months went by, and Paul Chuckle soon started to chuckle again, just as if fuck all had happened to the poor unfortunate Barry, now almost certainly just a loose collection of bones.
Guffawing came next, and full-blown laughter with tears and thigh-slapping soon followed, and it wasn't too long before hysterical fits of uncontrollable belly-aching laughter were the norm.
Then, in the remarkably short period of just seven months, Paul has steeled himself against the sad memories, and is now able to explode with riotous infectious laughter at almost anything said within his presence, whether it's funny or not, which is going over the top a bit, if you ask me.