Without a doubt, if it wasn't for Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and even Neil Gaimen probably would have struggled to get published (and lots of other copycats).
Well, for a start, the hilarious _Good Omens: the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, witch._ Co-written with Terry Pratchett, also a great radio serial and a wonderful TV series from about 3 years ago.
Secondly, multiple superb novels, such as _Stardust_ and _Coraline_, both adapted into successful feature films; _Neverwhere_, a low-budget British TV series; and _American Gods_, a huge, big-budget TV series.
Everything he has written has a rich vein of humour. Even perhaps the most tragic of the Sandman series, _Death: The Sound of her Wings_.
"You keep doing that, you know what you're going to get?
"FAT PIGEONS!"
No more do I. In fact, I live in a country where I do not speak the local language well enough to even _understand_ broadcast TV.
This is more a matter of general cultural awareness, I would say. Gaiman's writing career goes back to _Don't Panic_, a book _about_ the Hitchhiker's Guide some 30 years ago now. He is a lot more than just a comics writer.
Anyway. I hope you try some of the books and enjoy them. I would say that he is perhaps more of a fabulist than a novelist -- a lot of his novels to me strike me as being akin to fairy tales, myths or legends, but with a fine modern sensibility.
Fair enough. Most of the books aren't really comedies, as such. _Good Omens_ definitely is, though, and for me, it remains hilarious after 31 years. One of my very favourite novels after THHGTTG itself.
I would probably suggest reading it before watching the series, if you were so inclined -- it's very good indeed, but strongly aimed at the readers of the book. It's a bit wordy in places.
“There are some dogs which, when you meet them, remind you that, despite thousands of years of man-made evolution, every dog is still only two meals away from being a wolf. These dogs advance deliberately, purposefully, the wilderness made flesh, their teeth yellow, their breath a-stink, while in the distance their owners witter, "He's an old soppy really, just poke him if he's a nuisance," and in the green of their eyes the red campfires of the Pleistocene gleam and flicker.”
“She was convinced that she was anorexic, because every time she looked in the mirror she did indeed see a fat person.”
“God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.”
His novels -- American Gods, Graveyard Book, et al. -- are in the same vein of clever and British humo[u]r as Adams'. Whether they are funny or not will depend on the reader.
