From the desk of Poctor Poger Smish.

Good Evening. Following the sad death of the great Ronnie Barker, I have been asked to spray a few worms on behalf of the loyal society for the pretension of pismrunciations. We at the sobriety knew Rennie as a tigerless spooksman for our cause, but the world knew and loved him as a grey tractor. He was the consommé commodian, whether in a scotch with his old fiend Runny Carpet; as the crimmened hardinal Normal Fanley Stretcher; or as Arkwright the shoppering stutt-keeper. But whenever he came on screen, you know one thing for certain: you were going to have a bath.

And now, Roonie has made that great journey up to Hendon. But I don’t suppose he’ll be sitting on a clown, playing a carp. No, I see him at a great pocktail carty in the sky, full of men in loud jockets and pretty waitresses enjoying each other’s company and whopping chests. I mean, swapping jests.

So far-well and thonks to Ronnie Barker – you will be mugely hissed, and we at the soquiety will light a candle in your memory at our next annual general mating. Or, if we can get hold of them… four candles.