Way back in 1996, an aspiring writer named James Campbell had a brilliant idea. Like all the best ideas, everyone was astonished nobody had thought of it before. He would become, he decided after a stint as a school storyteller, a stand-up comedian for children. There was, he reckoned, a vast, uninhibited, unjaded, sober audience just waiting for gags about cows, cockroach honey and stretchy lizards. An audience who liked nothing more than laughing until their noses bled and ears threatened to burst.
Since then, Campbell's Comedy 4 Kids has delighted children in London, Edinburgh, internationally renowned festivals, provincial theatres and schools. (Despite appearing on television and writing several plays, he still loves performing in classrooms). The only mystery is why it has taken Scotland's longest-running comedy club, the Stand, in Glasgow, more than 10 years to start a regular children's event of its own.
Tommy Sheppard, the director of the Stand, describes it as "borrowing" from Campbell's successful London venture. "The ground rules are the same," he says. "The acts are all adult stand-ups; they can't swear, they can't do filth, but they don't write special material. They cover exactly the same ground with kids as they do with adults: soaps, celebrities, relationships."
It is a formula that, since the Glasgow pilot scheme started in October, has been a great success. "I have been really surprised by how receptive the kids have been, what a good audience they are," says Sheppard. If the rest of the 10-week trial continues to attract healthy crowds, he is confident that it will continue after Christmas and be rolled out to the Edinburgh club. Later this month Brendon Burns, who won the if.comedy (previously the Perrier) award in 2007, will headline the Sunday afternoon slot. One of the most famously offensive comedians on the circuit, he has promised to keep it profanity-free.
There were no award-winners on the bill when I road tested the club with my 11-year-old daughter, Nina. The omens were not immediately great. She looked a little alarmed as we negotiated the stairs to the basement of the former secondary school in Woodlands Road. The bar, normally steamy and elbow-jostlingly full, was deserted. And cold. No hot drinks were available. "We only have juice, crisps, sweeties and booze," said the barman.
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A velvet curtain was rigged up to make the performance space a little cosier. Behind it, a smattering of children, still wearing their coats, waited for the fun to start. One resourceful mother had brought a pack of cards. We listened to the B-52s and the Batman theme.
More people drifted in. (I later discover this was the smallest house since the pilot started). Three teenage lads assumed the thrust-back-in-chair position, waiting to be impressed. Boys outnumbered girls. Children outnumbered adults. Eventually Bruce Devlin and his dog, Smidgen, bounded onto the stage. Smidgen, rather alarmingly, was entrusted to the care of Felix, an adorable little lad waiting patiently in the front row.
Devlin, once described by the Scotgay website as a "screaming bitch of a gay comic" may not be everyone's go-to guy to host a children's comedy show. His regular fringe slot - a lunchtime chat show camper than a Judy Garland-themed Tupperware party - is not suitable for a family audience. But, with his safe-search function switched on, he did an admirably avuncular job. With all the tropes and tricks of the adult comedian - learning names, plenty of audience participation, a debate about whether secondary or primary school is better - it was just like an evening at the Stand, but without the sex, violence and overpowering smell of unwashed student.
The subjects up for discussion (Hallowe'en, Cheryl Cole's "horrible chicken legs from Newcastle") were pretty much the same. And the quality of jokes from the audience, when the children were asked to get up on stage and tell one, was universally high. Devlin was outfoxed by a 10-year-old who asked him which cheese is made backwards (Answer: Edam. It took the comedian about two minutes to get it). My favourite was from Felix: "Our mum doesn't have to call us for our dinner. We just listen for the smoke alarm."
The first act, Miss Silver, was a character comedian. She bounded on stage with the enthusiasm of a Blue Peter presenter and promised the audience, in an American accent, some educational comedy. This did not bode well - at one point she said: "If you don't think school is super-fun, this could be a long half-hour."
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I found myself nodding vigorously. There was lots of "girls rule" feminism, some round-the-room storytelling and a few random psychic predictions before Miss Silver burst into tears and revealed that she wasn't really a teacher, or an American, and that she had just wandered in off the street and was, in fact, from Liverpool.
A good deal of this went over the young audience's head, although they did enjoy inventing the tale of the alien who ate an elephant who ate a tiger. But despite mentioning puke, farting and an extensive nose-picking riff, the kids did not fall in love with Miss Silver. They were, however, well-behaved and polite.
During the impromptu interval, the father sitting next to me confided that he had never been to the Stand before. His wife had suggested it and his two daughters were having a great time. "Kids don't have the same hang-ups as we do," he said, watching the younger one dancing between the seats. He was, he said, enjoying the show and would certainly come back.
Then Viv Gee rushed onto the stage. A last-minute stand-in for another comedian, it was her first show for children. Her first joke sailed over their heads. "I'm from the posh side of Glasgow," she told them. "Edinburgh. Does that make you hate me?" No. It made them wildly indifferent. But they could comment knowledgeably on her break-dancing and were impressed with a poem about her mother's unfortunate personal habits.
These are teething troubles. Sheppard's masterplan is, he says, to develop a roster of about 12 Scottish comedians who will form the core of the children's bills. He can then add in the visitors who come up to headline the two clubs at the weekends.
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Nina was unsure about Miss Silver, but loved Viv Gee's poetry. She could have taken more slapstick and physical comedy. Her mother could happily have taken a cup of tea. But there is always next time - Nina wants to come back for her birthday. "It would," she says, "be really cool." And 11-year-olds pay no greater compliment than that.
Glasgow Kids' Comedy Club, the Stand, Glasgow, Sundays, 3pm. Tickets £3. For ages 8 to 12; no under-5s. www.thestand.co.uk