WHEN I was asked to interview Ken Dodd a few years ago, I was a little apprehensive. He was in his 80s and, dialling his number, I braced myself for a tricky 20 minutes or so.

I thought of my rather sad telephone interview with Norman Wisdom, who was nearly 90 and struggled to hear me. When I mentioned his films and career highlights, shouting down the ‘phone and repeating questions, Sir Norman said: “I don’t remember those things, but if you say so I suppose I must have done them’.

Would a Doddy interview be similar? By Jove, it turned out to be anything but. From the minute he picked up the ‘phone, the veteran comic chatted away, sharp as a tack. He spoke of his childhood (in the house where he lived his entire life), becoming stage-struck at variety shows as a boy, and working the clubs, where he learned to “look ‘em in the eye”.

As we talked for the best part of an hour, what struck me was his razor sharp memory and impressive eye for detail. He peppered the conversation with gags (he’s said to have told 1,500 jokes in three-and-a-half-hours), and not once did I have to repeat anything. He spoke fondly of Yorkshire and my home city of Bradford; a place he had a long association with, appearing here practically every year since starring in the 1959/60 panto at the Alhambra theatre.

When I said that, watching him on telly as a child, I assumed Knotty Ash was the made-up home of Diddymen he said, with mock indignation: “Heckmondwike, Shelf, Idle...and you think Knotty Ash is strange!”

Last week I watched a TV tribute to Sir Bruce Forsyth, another old-school entertainer. Next day I woke to the news that Sir Ken had died, at the grand age of 90. I thought of watching him on stage at the Alhambra late last year, when he had a packed house in stitches for five hours. The stage was his life, and he was performing almost to the end of it.

He was out of fashion, and he hadn’t been on telly for donkey’s years. Yet after his death the inevitable tributes poured in, many from fellow comics.

I didn’t particularly care for his humour, even as a child his Diddymen annoyed me, but he was the last of the music hall comics and I wanted to see him on stage before it was too late. I’m glad I did.

Armed with his tickling stick, he walked on at 6pm - “It’s wonderful to be here. At my age it’s wonderful to be anywhere,” he declared - and by the time he waved goodbye to his audience, on their feet and singing along to Happiness, it was nearly 11pm. He wasn’t in his prime, but he was on stage practically the whole evening and his comic timing was intact. His quickfire gags were peppered with songs, including his chart-topper, Tears. There was lively banter with the audience, and throughout his long set he returned to people he’d singled out, remembering their names. I’ve seen comics a quarter of his age who’d struggle with that.

I interviewed Doddy two or three times over the years and he spoke from the heart about his love of entertaining. “I’ve been working professionally since 1954 and I’ve never done the same show twice,” he told me. “It’s about communication. There’s no better feeling than standing in front of an audience and making them laugh.” How tickled am I that I finally got to be in his audience.