‘I killed Rod Hull – the emu man.’
Well, of course I didn’t, but I have an awful feeling those seven words will be my epitaph. I spoke the words in passing, almost as an aside, but I am fearful they will come to define me.
The other day, on my podcast, the great John Cleese, 84, told me how, years ago, a man died of convulsive laughter while watching his film . Prompted by this anecdote from Cleese (who, incidentally, might have been called Jack Cheese, had
