I’m quite proud to say that this man was my godfather. I don’t know so much about the intimate details of his television career – other than that he was extremely successful – but I do remember his fabulous ability to tell very good stories about Nibble & Nobble who lived in the air-raid shelter, and to magic boxes of cigarettes from under his pillow for my mother. On New Year’s Eve, he would play his complicated electric piano fabulously and hilariously and we would all sing There was Rita, Rita looking even sweeter…, and he would host parties with his wife, J, that were so wild that my mum would come home so drunk and giggly that she seemed convinced she was, at that point, the happiest person on the planet. Once, she couldn’t remember how she got home. And then he’d potter off to book auctions with my father and they’d spend too much money on first editions. More obituaries have appeared here and here and also on the radio, here. I have learned things about him I never knew before, or I was perhaps told as a child, and forgot. Of those around me who have died, I have learned much about them at their funerals, the after-funeral parties and in obituaries – much more than I ever knew before.