For 40 years, Barry Humphries wrote to Roger Lewis about John Betjeman, Oscar Wilde – and the Grim Reaper
I’m getting to be like John Gielgud, when he lamented, ‘All my real friends are dead’ – Michael Winner, Bryan Forbes, Barry Cryer and now Barry Humphries. I knew Barry for about 40 years, ever since I interviewed him for a colour supplement. We subsequently met in odd spots of his own choosing, such as the Freud Museum in Hampstead, where he reclined on the couch – or the National Galley in Wales, so he could point at a picture by Anton Mauve and remark on the coincidental use of mauve paint. Served a meagre portion of pie in the cafeteria of a veteran car museum in Coventry, he said to the waitress, ‘Has news of my diet reached the kitchen?’ I miss him terribly – he was a sort of father figure, whose approval and admiration I always sought. ‘I enjoy all you put your pen to, whereas my...
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