the classic dictionary of local colloquialisms. Not only was it an immediate hit with the local literati, but also an indispensible boon to expats who had, for years, been getting the sound but not the picture of what the locals were actually saying.

The pocket-sized passport to comprehension also attracted the eye of one Fred Rogers, an activist in the now-defunct Save Our Cinema Society, who asked if the authors would contribute to a benefit show in aid of SOCS.

Although Fred didn't quite see himself as comic relief for jaded audiences, he had grown up in a household with a humorous father who included in his healthy servings of such renowned comedians as W.C. Fields and the Marx Brothers in his sons' diets.

As a child, Fred's sibling, Bruce, enjoyed making people laugh, and as a student he learned to work his natural-born affinity for comedy to his advantage, based on a personal assessment that he was neither academically nor athletically stellar.

"If you can make people laugh, it's a wonderfully disarming tactic,'' he says of the ploy.

This, matched with a "burning desire to do comedy'', and an admiration for such comedians as Bill Cosby and Red Skelton, who he studied closely, caused Bruce to turn up with Fred, Tim Taylor, and others for a "meeting of the minds'' at the Robin Hood restaurant one fine day in 1984.

It was to be the genesis of a long and funny theatrical road for the Bards of Barritt's, et al.

"Our first show was downstairs at the Forty Thieves,'' Bruce remembers.

"They wouldn't let us have it on the weekend, so we performed Monday to Wednesday, and we had to set and break the stage ourselves.'' Although the live shows were always followed by the film The Yellow Submarine, audiences made clear their preference.

"A lot more people watched our show and left, which was kind of nice (for us),'' Bruce smiled. And so the stars -- and shows -- were born.

"We had so much fun we did it year after year after year,'' Bruce says of the long-running Not the Um Um Show success story. Following two years on Front Street the full-scale productions shifted to the Clayhouse Inn on North Shore where they remained, playing always to sell-out houses, with dozens more left pining for non-existent tickets.

As to why the shows never moved to City Hall to accommodate the insatiable demand, Bruce says this is because "we are very much a cabaret. Our shows are down and dirty'' -- which apparently translates to "a place where our audiences can drink''.