WCXX

Last week's award is, then, for something more than Vine's ability to write a smart joke. It recognises that there is plenty to celebrate in the survival of a style of comedy that was supposed to have become obsolete.

Beaming with middle-class wholesomeness and the benefits of a stern Christian upbringing, Tim can be seen as a welcome antidote to the alternative tyranny. Older audiences like him because he's a throwback to how things used to be, younger ones because they haven't seen anything like him. Women enjoy him because he isn't angry, and men because he doesn't endlessly flog the dog-eared, bloke-as-perpetual-loser routines.

He realised early on that he wanted to be on stage. The first attempt at stardom came when he formed an early-Eighties punk group with his brother, Jeremy, now a prominent BBC TV and radio presenter. Both Vines were the product of a close, socially conservative family and parents who secretly hoped their sons might become missionaries. Somehow, they weren't made for the depraved world of rock, and their band, the Flared Generation, quickly broke up.

While Jeremy went off to Durham University, Tim drifted through a series of lowly jobs, including a stint as a teaboy in the City. His parents, Guy and Diana, wondered what would become of him, but one day Tim heard about a competition at the Comedy Café in Shoreditch, offering a £25 prize for the best new act. He didn't win, but was hooked on the rat-a-tat style of stand-up and he developed a flair for jokes that brought a much-need touch of modernity to the hallowed format: "Conjunctivitis.com," he'd say: "Now there's a site for sore eyes."

To the gags he added an endearingly madcap act that includes songs, stage tricks, wordplay, puppets and a variety of eccentric props. All necessary, he explains, to prepare the audience for the next barrage of jokes.

Vine's approach to comedy is meticulous. He scribbles the jokes down as he thinks of them, more or less constantly, to be polished "like diamonds" later. He sets a rough target of at least 15 jokes a day – not all of which make the cut – and, like all comics, worries about the material drying up. A few years ago he was hit by a rumour that he had borrowed jokes from the late Tommy Cooper – one of his heroes – but was vindicated when it emerged that Cooper had been wrongly credited with jokes penned by Vine.

At such times it helps to have faith, although Vine doesn't make a fuss about his Christian convictions. "My faith is important to me," he says, "but I'm a little bit suspect about people who appear to have all the answers – and jealous as well."

He is unmarried, well mannered, still lives near suburban Cheam in Surrey, where he grew up, and perhaps the most subversive thing about him is that he wouldn't dream of swearing on stage. He describes his act as "mostly silliness", but his success suggests it's rather more than that, and that he knows exactly what makes a one-liner work. Even if he isn't telling.