Funnier than Holland: John McKay, (aka the Prophet Wayne) reports from the World Improvisation Tournament

I'm in Victoria, British Columbia, pretending to be a Biblical prophet called Wayne. Five minutes later, I'm planning a jailbreak in inaccurate French. At the World Improvisation Tournament you do as the audience says. You never say no.

Day 1 of the two-week tournament, and a chance for all 10 teams to size up the field. In the evening, we relax - impro-style. Actors drink; writers tell stories; improvisors stay up till 4am daring each other to do embarrassing things. This is a serious business: they don't embarrass easily. At the roll of a dice, Ray from Calgary - a cowboy from cowboy territory - is forced to perm his hair; my dare, which I won't go into, involves a woman's swimsuit.

Day 2, and the tournament proper begins. The ginger-haired Australians show great proficiency in talking nonsense. At the referee's command, they shift so seamlessly between English and gibberish that you forget which is which. Wisconsin, three beef-fed chunks from Oshkosh, make a brave stab at Shakepearian dialogue, but generally prefer to throw each other around. Some teams (us), stick to clear gimmicks: a scene in rhyme, a scene going backwards. People sometimes ask if impro comedy is secretly scripted. This is a compliment: the miracle of improvisation, when it works, is that it is a spontaneous agreement of diverse minds. The trick is not to think ahead; not, in fact, to think at all, but simply to say the first thing that comes into your head. Which, after years ingesting life, literature, and soap-powder commercials, is funny. In theory.

Here, a North American audience comes in handy. Call it the Oprah Syndrome: an incredible willingness to expose personal details in public. Back in Britain, audience members are reluctant to disclose even their name, in case you make them look stupid. In Victoria, asked for a medical story to start a scene, a young man stands up eagerly: 'When I was nine,' he begins, 'All the hair got burned off my testicles . . .'

Charged up with the festive atmosphere, we are playing a blinder: beating Australia in the qualifiers, and fluking Vancouver out by one point in the quarterfinals. It's Montreal who dash our hopes: Craig, (shaved-bald and camp as a row of tents), Jenny the flame-haired vamp, and Rob. Rob's forte is falling down. At the height of the semi-final, he falls deliriously through an onstage window, sweeping our chances with him. We have made up our last gag.

In the final, Montreal meet Calgary: three frustratingly handsome mountain boys, Albert, Ray - perm still visible - and Roman. They make the rest of the tournament look like a stuttering match. A scene where one of them does the dialogue for all three? Right away. A sick kid scene in an aeroplane, complete with vividly-mimed depressurisation and faulty life-vests? You got it. I have a strong urge to ask them if it's all secretly scripted.

So it's official then: Canada is gold-and-silver-medal funny. Britain is only bronze-medal funny; but at least this is a step up from Holland, who are so reliably humour-free, other teams take to shooting them on stage.

London Theatresports runs classes for beginners and advanced players (Details: 081- 452 9355)