Fuddland

There were no great revelations about Eric Morecambe in tonight’s documentary, and that’s really a relief; even though we all love a good gossip and learning tasty little tidbits that no-one knew before, it’d be a pity to chip away at the comedy pedestal that Morecambe & Wise occupy for people of a certain generation [which I think people around my age are the last to know of]. In fact, it demonstrated that he was a very loyal man who would not let down his comedy partner even when his health and other interests were dictating that his attention should be elsewhere.

I have an absolutely vivid memory of when he died — I was at my grandparents’ house in Bournemouth, lying on the floor watching the television with my sister; my mother and grandparents were next door in the dining room engaging in post-pudding chat around the table that now lives in London. The news was on, and when the newsreader announced that Eric Morecambe had suffered a fatal heart attack, I got up, walked into the dining room, and told everyone the news. I’m pretty sure that was the first time I saw — or perhaps understood what it meant to see — people I knew saddened by someone’s death, which is probably why I remember it so well.