ONCE UPON a long ago, this was the finest chat show of them all, helmed by a man who was very much “one of us” albeit with an address book that boasted the phone numbers of the greatest stars in the world. Raconteurs, conversationalists, learned specialists, Hollywood legends, articulate politicos, inspirational artists, genius musicians: they all took a turn strolling down the steps to take their seat on Parky’s raised brown daius. Then the man fucked off to TV-am on the promise of loads of money, got sacked, did ALL-STAR SECRETS and GIVE US A CLUE, moaned a lot, did some gardening, went to Australia loads of times and finally revived this, to no great acclaim in the late 90s, whereupon he revealed himself to have become a) a grouch b) a fogey c) a sycophant d) prone to slagging off anyone who wasn’t “a journalist” e) the most boring man on the planet. Defection to the other side sealed his fate, where he spent a few insufferable seasons playing host to ITV Z-list celebrities, before bowing out to spend more time with his biography. Which he’s writing himself, of course, because he’s “a journalist”.