If you're weighed down by the economy, politics, or just your own life and are desperate for a laugh, pick up any of P.G. Wodehouse's books. I think he started publishing around 1918 or 19 and carried on through the 50s. This book has been on my to-read shelf for a long time, and I'm sorry I didn't pull it down before.
There are many collections of his works, as well as individual stories. This one includes about 5 stories each from "The Drone's Club," "Mr. Mulliner," stories about golf (gowf), Jeeves the best butler in the world, and Wodehouse's novel, "Quick Service." I thought the stories about the members of The Drone's Club were the funniest, with "Uncle Fred Flits By" as the best of those. If you recall the bits Monty Python did about twits,(twits being stupid, homely, awkward, worthless members of the wealthy class in England, I think), this is the same group Wodehouse was making fun of years before.
They are forever falling in "love at first sight" with some ravishing vicar's daughter, with limpid blue eyes, and curly blond hair, who refuses to give them the time of day until they
a)dress better b)do volunteer work c)take up golf, or some other remote challenge that will keep them out of her sight for a while.
Mr. Mulliner is a permanent fixture at the bar at The Angler's Rest, which I imagine to be something like Fawlty Towers. No matter what anyone else says (and everyone else is identified by what they're drinking such as ginger-and-a-splash), Mr. Mulliner has a nephew who knows all about it, had an even worse case of it, or was even braver in the face of it.
I don't have the book in front of me, but there's a section about Ukridge, a man who's always scheming to get some money out of his wealthy aunt or any friend foolish enough to be talked into investing. I think his name is Stanley Featherington Ukridge.
Wodehouse's names that he gives these men and the quaint places in the country which they retire to when London gets to be too much for them are hilarious.
The first chapter of the golf stories is about how golf came to the country from far away Scotland in olden times. The locals decided it must be some heathen religion, worshipping the god Gowf. Everyone ended up throwing over their old religious gods, and taking up the mysterious practice.
Well, I didn't mean to ramble on so long, but if you like laughing at the upper-class British, you'll find this or any of Wodehouse's books a hoot.