A silent-era soliloquy, international slagging matches, dynamite racial material and a meandering melt down - welcome to the Cat Laughs Comedy Festival, writes Peter Crawley

If, about 80 years from now, a particularly famous comedian decides to look back on the comedy of the early 21st century - as Paul Merton does in his paean to 1920s slapstick in Silent Clowns - what will future generations make of the 13th Smithwick's Cat Laughs Comedy Festival?

Will they miss the topical references, by then surely caked in dust, and wonder aloud about these hellish ordeals known as international terrorism and Ryanair? Will they understand the particular social conditions that could have made Andrew Maxwell an Irish TV star, and make sure they never happen again? Will they listen to jovial skits on drink driving, racism or paedophilia, and think, "How quaint"?

Part of the problem with Silent Clowns is that good comedy has the shelf life of fresh cream and the gags of the day - the pratfalls and camera tricks - require an explanation; understandably enough, the silent era can't speak for itself. Merton, moreover, is a comedian from whom we expect a kind of linguistic slapstick of rapid-fire delivery and surreal wit, but who here limits himself to the role of earnest, appreciative host. (When the show's strongest feature is a witty and perfectly executed piano score, Neil Brand's Silent Clowns might have been a better title.)

Merton does tell us something of lingering consequence for the festival though: Buster Keaton's father, a horrible-sounding stage vaudevillian, apparently sewed a suitcase handle onto the back of his five-year-old son's jacket - all the better to throw him with - and once flung young Buster at a pocket of hecklers. Is it any wonder that Keaton's mint-fresh genius, with all those perfectly timed, blank-faced, near-death experiences, knows that the secret of eternal comedy is eternal cruelty? Or, as the peerless Reginald D Hunter put it during one of his incandescently good gigs: "How do you come to a comedy club and get offended?"

As warm-hearted, good-tempered and collegiate as the Smithwick's Cat Laughs undoubtedly is, when everyone's a comedian, every gag arrives at someone's expense and no joke comes without a butt. Inevitably then, the 13th festival was going to be unlucky for some.

Take this year's Football Press Conference, the parody confab hosted by Barry Murphy's Gunther creation, which takes place before the annual Ireland vs the Rest of the World match. This game is played by two teams of stand-up comics who enter into it with the same carefree, jokey spirit as an 11th-hour hostage negotiation.

This year's conference, though hilariously improvised, quickly descended into a competition for who could best mock Karl Spain. (The winner, by a country mile, was Karl Spain.) The next day's match, played in the ever-present drizzle of the long weekend, was brilliantly entertaining, thanks largely to Spain's ingenious commentary: "[ Des] Bishop smiles; but it's the smile of an assassin. [ Neil] Delamere gets a another booking - probably for Vicar Street."

It was also a total swizz. Owing to demographic convenience, it had been redesigned as a match between Oldies vs Young 'Uns (against near-total public objection), threatening to turn this comedy football match into a laughing stock.

ONE LAST-MINUTE controversy had nothing to do with the match, however (a 9-7 victory to the Old Fellas, in which Owen O'Neill, whose kid is a professional footballer, was awarded man of the match. Like son, like father.)

Phil Kay, the never exactly retiring Scottish comedian, had what some more charitable audience members described as a "melt down".

Kay, by all accounts, played a great gig on Saturday and, by all accounts, a bewilderingly awful one on Sunday, containing much guitar strumming, little comedy and which culminated in an attempt to stem his walkouts by stripping naked and exposing his rear, and more besides. This was not as effective a damage-control manoeuvre as you might think. Needless to say, many punters have demanded their money back, perhaps incensed by his stripping (but can there really be anyone interested in comedy who has not yet seen Phil Kay nude?), or just a really lousy show.

I'd give you a more detailed report, but, like the age of silent comedians, for what passed for funny in 2007, or the Cat Laughs festival itself, you just had to be there.