In the case of Kim Jong-Il and Ronnie Wolfe, both men had one thing in common, in that they once held millions in their thrall: one by being a despotic tyrant, the other by co-writing the iconic television series On The Buses. The show, which had its roots deep in the fertile if gamey soil of old-fashioned seaside humour, ran for 79 episodes and was essential family viewing for half a decade. It always had its detractors, but in my adolescence no Sunday night was complete without the weekly shenanigans at Luxton bus depot.  More remarkable, it spawned three of the greatest comic creations in television history: namely, the adenoidal and long-suffering Olive, her misogynist husband Arthur, and the incomparable Blakey, with his toothbrush moustache and his catchphrase that still rings down the ages – “I’ll get you, Butler!”  All artistes, it’s said, should suffer for their art, and Hollywood actor Jeremy Irvine believes that he has found a novel way of doing so. Irvine is claiming that while shooting the arduous First World War battlefield scenes for Stephen Spielberg’s film of War Horse, he became the first actor since 1918 to be afflicted by the debilitating condition known as trench foot.  Sorry to be pedantic, Jeremy, but a word about the billing. In Christmas 1981, I gave my Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz at Worthing, a role which entailed prancing about in a costume made from off-cuts from Carpet Warehouse. During the run, I lost over three stones, most of which gathered in the bottom of my outfit. No fussing personal assistant or opulent Winnebago for me to relax in between takes: merely a cup of sugary tea and a rub down with athlete’s foot powder. And all for £110 a week. So don’t tell me you had it bad in the trenches my son. Suffering? You don’t know the meaning of the word.  Funny the things you see when you haven’t got your gun” is a phrase used by my wife to describe unlikely and unpredictable encounters. Yesterday, she used it to particular effect to describe a train journey from Manchester, during which she was sitting opposite one of football’s most powerful executives (when I asked who it was, my wife, who doesn’t know her inside right from her offside trap and thinks 4‑4-2 is game show once hosted by Ted Rogers, couldn’t recall his name).  With topics of conversation exhausted even before they’d got to Crewe, she asked if he was looking forward to his Christmas dinner. Not really, he replied. How come? Well, apparently his sister-in-law is a forensic pathologist who, even as the turkey is being carved on the table, insists on providing a detailed inventory of likely ailments, physical disabilities and probable time of death of the unfortunate bird. Bon appétit.
The death of sitcom writer Ronald Wolfe reminds me what essential viewing his    creation was - and still is.