NOTHING demolishes your dignity quite so effectively as the chair that collapses underneath you.

One second you're the picture of suave sophistication. The next you're an ungainly heap on the floor, colleagues hooting in delight as somebody chants: "Who ate all the pies?"

I became aware of the comic possibilities of wonky seats 40 years ago or more. It was a Saturday evening and I was watching television with my mum and dad.

The comedian Arthur Haynes was struggling to put up a deckchair and getting increasingly flustered. Time after time he tried to erect the wretched thing, only for it to fall flat the second he lowered his backside into it. How we laughed.

Well, perhaps I shouldn't have laughed quite so heartily because there have been times since when I suspect fate has been getting its own back on me for taking such pleasure in poor old Arthur's misery all those years ago.

One of the most recent was just a couple of years back when a colleague lent me the keys to her beach hut... and I repaid her kindness by snapping the sunbed in two the very first time I clambered on to it.

Last year there was more indignity in store at a BSO open-air concert. There I was, relaxing in my deckchair, looking very much the international playboy with my straw hat, sexy sunglasses and glass of wine. That was until the canvas gave way with a mighty tearing sound and I descended to earth in a shower of Wotsits and Chardonnay.

Perhaps you'll think I'm being disrespectful and irreverent when I tell you about the most recent incident. But I hope you don't.

It happened in a beautiful old church in South Wales last month, where my wife and I were among the mourners at her cousin Phillip's funeral.

Phillip was an extremely popular, well-loved man and the little church was packed.

Now I'm not among the daintiest of people. And neither is my brother-in-law Gary. But perhaps if just one of us had attempted to squeeze in alongside the others already packed into the pew everything would have been alright.

But we were assured there was room for both of us. And as we lowered ourselves into place a grinding, snapping sound followed by a sudden lurching movement made it clear that something was very, very wrong.

"You'd better get out quick," hissed a voice behind us. "The pew's coming apart."

"Let's just hope the vicar's got a sense of humour," muttered Gary as we darted across the aisle in search of fresh seating.

As the bench hadn't collapsed altogether, our wives decided to take their chances and stay put. So they remained there throughout the service, perched gingerly on the edge of the seat like two apprehensive budgies.

As they hovered there, grimly holding on to various pieces of displaced timber, somehow keeping the framework in shape, they brought a whole new meaning to the phrase: "Pull up a pew."

Yes, there were tears at Phillip's funeral, lots of them. But it was an upbeat occasion too, a celebration of a remarkable life, and the laughter that rang out when we recalled the episode of the pew in the pub later didn't seem at all inappropriate. I'm quite sure that somewhere Phillip was joining in.

It was later, driving back to Bournemouth, that I got to thinking about my own mortality and imagined myself being greeted at the Pearly Gates.

"Ross? David? Ah yes, I need to make some enquiries on this one," said St Peter in my little fantasy. "I may be some time. Would you like to take a seat?"

"Perhaps I'd better stand."

First published: Sept 18