Working at the Moscow Arts Theatre, Bulgakov wrote plays - one about Molière, who had to work, like him, under the eye of the censor - and a novel, Black Snow, which was dramatised and performed at the National Theatre in London not long ago: one of the funniest evenings at the theatre I remember.
What followed was one of the funniest evenings in family memory.
I recently attended the GuyWriters Theatre Company's production of seven short comedies under the umbrella title Eat Our Shorts 4 -- Love And Other Disasters and was completely blindsided to find myself witnessing one of the funniest evenings of gay theater I've seen in years.
When I explain the story in the play I still try and make it funny, but most evenings the moment got a knowing nod rather than actual laughter.
The New York writer Calvin Trillin, a popular master of ceremonies at such evenings because he is so funny, recalls many occasions when the benefit chairman stood to announce that more than $1 million had been raised.
I was also pleased to see Gerard Reve's funny, shiftless and poignant debut novel, The Evenings (Pushkin £12.99), available in English a mere 71 years after appearing in the original Dutch.
The most recent example is touring guitarist Vance Gilbert, a fantastic and funny folk face, who recently sold out his evenings while shouting about United's probably racist and totally boneheaded profiling on his blog and Facebook.
My father was a very smart, funny, hard-working guy — he taught college classes in the evenings and summer — but he always found time to do things with us.
I thought back to those wasted evenings trawling through YouTube, trying to find the funniest videos of mums revving up misfiring motorbikes and felt myself fill out with a sense of regret.
There are few things more soul-destroying than being locked into an early-evening conversation with a barfly who thinks they are funny or clever or, worst of all, "a character".
