Grayson and Inman may have acquired Howerd’s more blatant eccentricities (though they quite lacked his command, his air of being a crumpled cousin of Henry Irving coming before the velvet curtains at the Lyceum to make orotund apologies); but the damp upper lip, the seduction of the audience, the way people were taken into his confidence, and then rejected (‘I’m appealing tonight, ladies and gentle-men, for succour. Succ-our!’): all this has been inherited, and perverted, by Graham Norton, whom I can’t abide. He has all the appeal of an over-familiar waiter in Dean Street. Subtract the vocal tricks and affectations of Frankie Howerd, and what are you left with? A tiresome and shrill leprechaun who has received Bafta awards for a television show where women are invited to fire ping-pong balls out of their private parts. Courtesy of the World Wide Web, Norton has also shown viewers ‘God Save the Queen’ being played in an unconventional way on a penny whistle.

So Me is so him, i.e. vain, superficial and sordid. The worst tragedy to have befallen Norton is reaching the age of 40. He goes on and on about this (‘I had to admit that I was tired’.) There is also a chapter given over to finding a mouse in the kitchen of one of his many tastefully designed homes. The trouble with today’s celebrity gays is that nothing is at stake for them. With Howerd, Kenneth Williams and Hawtrey, the concealments and tensions necessary in their private lives produced the creative energy. Norton, Julian Clary and the rest of them, despite the endless erection and dildo gags, are flaccid.

Blackwell Bookshop

Purchase your copy here, 10% off RRP