YOU can imagine what the cynics said. "A comedy festival? In York? Don't make me laugh." Yet it was a roaring success.

Notwithstanding my own funny turn (well, it certainly made me feel ill), the general feeling was that the festival was a triumph and a tonic. The good cheer was infectious. It was relayed by the comedians to their audience and they, in turn, spread it throughout their homes and workplaces like a good virus by retelling the best jokes.

The only disappointment is that the festival organisers were unable to book the joker from Prince William's 21st birthday bash. No, not that tedious comedy terrorist, but Prince Harry.

He looks to be a right laugh. The fact that the Queen and Wills initially assumed Harry had hired Osama lookalike Aaron Barschak suggests that the prince is the family wag.

And what a set he could do. All that observational stuff: "Hey, isn't it terrible when a corgi nibbles the crotch from your best jodhpurs..."; then a swaggering finish with a unique sign-off line: "My name's His Royal Highness Prince Henry Charles Albert David of Wales - goodnight!"

Perhaps he could headline next year's festival.

Of course that decision is for the small, hardworking band who inspired and staged last week's laugh-in. We could do with more of their ilk to deliver more of the same.

Festivals are fab. They lift the mood of the city from the predominant one of grumbling apathy. That's because any festival, whether it celebrates the sackbut and crumhorn of early music, or the sword and society of the Vikings, brings in enthusiasts. And enthusiasm is as infectious as comedy.

Festivals add colour and fun to the city streets. They don't have to be massively long: both the Air 2003 music festival and the Roman Festival are booked for the last weekend in July, and the first Great York Dragon Boat Challenge will take only a few hours.

Nevertheless, it is a shame that there is no longer a regular York Festival, as happened up until about ten years ago. This was a right old mish-mash of high art and low culture, sport and theatre.

As someone who arrived in the city a year too late to sample it directly, it strikes me that the wonderful thing about the York Festival was its happy absence of elitism. The month-long extravaganza wasn't for satire lovers, sackbut scholars, It's A Knockout fans or opera buffs, but for everyone. The more York residents took part, the livelier an occasion it was. And unlike Glastonbury, it didn't cost a shocking £100 to get in.

At the centre of the programme was the Mystery Plays. Perhaps this event worked better as part of a wider cultural melee rather than in splendid isolation.

Unhappily the plays won't be staged next year as expected. So while the city ponders how to restage the Mystery Plays, why don't we make that extra effort and revive the whole festival?

THE Evening Press has had an unmistakable whiff of horse manure about it lately. Curmudgeonly readers might remark that this is nothing new, but I refer to the specific stories about the plan to fit York's street horses with nappies.

A thought occurred while mulling this business about their business. The emissions from a horse are far less obnoxious than anything pumped out by cars and lorries. For consistency's sake, we should now fit vehicle exhausts with collection balloons, and ask the drivers to dispose of the fumes carefully.

Updated: 11:46 Wednesday, July 02, 2003