ARE you havin’ a laugh? Is he havin’ a laugh?

Ricky Gervais’s in- credulous catchphrase from When The Whistle Blows, the spoof Extras sitcom set in a factory canteen, sprang to mind when Dr Tim Leunig issued his aban- don all hands Mayday call to Liverpool.

You could almost feel sorry for this figure-head from Policy Exchange, the right wing think tank (a contradiction if ever there was one) cursed with his astonishing resemblance to the hapless swot Walter, from the Bash Street Kids, being verbally mauled by loyal Scousers such as Dean Sullivan on daytime TV in the aftermath of the Cities Unlimited report. Until you realise how close a relationship the report’s authors appear to have to the Conservative Party, which currently appears to have every chance of occupying Downing Street in the not too distant future.

Their pedigree, too, bears close scrutiny, especially some of the former links to national newspapers who have never been post-war friends to this city.

But before the usual accusations of Liverpudlian paranoia, persecution complexes, whingeing, etc, etc, come flooding this way, let’s keep focused on the humour side of it.

Mischief makers will say it could have hardly come up at a more appropriate time, with Tory leader David Cameron about to hit the North, including Merseyside today, to rally the troops.

More likely, it will serve as a wake-up call to lapsed Labour supporters about the true nature of their real opposition and the apparent London-centric focus of the Tory hierarchy, despite their protestations.

The beleaguered Prime Minister, Gordon “Pants” Brown, should also be gleefully regarding this as one of the most badly-timed cock-ups since Dick Dastardly and Muttley last tried unsuccessfully to win the Wacky Races.

But the bottom line is: why the hell should we want to leave here in the first place? An hour before writing this, I was standing by Birkenhead Woodside ferry terminal basking in the early morning sun watching a great line of container trucks nearby waiting to snake on board a giant ro-ro vessel.

Across the Mersey, the festival of cranes continued, symbolic of the ongoing rebirth of a once beleaguered city.

It was hardly a vision of desperation.

In fact, it was a sight to inspire precisely why I won’t be moving to Oxford to put the fear of God into Middle England by ramming a stick of rhubarb through a letterbox and bellowing, Doddy-like: “Woo-ooo, missus, lock up your daughters – the Scousers have landed!!!!”