FAREWELL TO COMEDY PIONEER - AND LOVELY MAN

NED Sherrin, the mastermind responsible for bringing the Sixties satire boom to TV, died last week at the age of 76. He created the BBC's first satire show, That Was the Week That Was, in 1962, revolutionising television and comedy.

I first met Ned when I performed the comedy slot on Loose Ends, his long-running BBC Radio 4 show, a couple of years ago. The guests that day were a clutch of literary types, some famous actors and the wonderfully talented Courtney Pine on saxophone. I was horrifically nervous, but Ned put me at ease immediately. He affected a really funny Scottish accent - "Hello there, lassie" - peered over his spectacles and smiled that enigmatic Ned grin that I will never forget, then added: "Now listen, Janey, we wouldn't have asked you on if you weren't funny. Don't stand there like a frightened pit pony. We won't bite."

When my turn came to lean into the microphone and perform three minutes of funny stuff, Ned grinned in encouragement. I had decided at the last minute not to do gags but include the gathering of guests in my own style of anecdotal chat.

Courtney Pine heckled me! He and I ended up having a bit of banter and Ned gave me the thumbs-up and I finished off to a round of applause. When I got the wink from Ned, I felt like the best wee girl at a nativity play, with a kindly father championing me the whole way.

That was what was special about him: he had the ability to rub shoulders with the greats of the Golden Age and yet could still connect with a wee Glasgow woman who told funny stories.

In later editions of Loose Ends, I went on to interview guests on the show and last year I wrote a fictional six-part series called "Nancy Dell'Olio's Diary" for them during the World Cup.

After the show, we always ended up in The George pub, round the corner from Broadcasting House. Ned would sit at the top of the table, always making sure everyone had a drink, and then platters of Scotch eggs would arrive.

Ned would shove these snacks under your nose until you took one. I hate Scotch eggs but, when Ned first recommended them to me, I felt I had to scoff one down. It was horrible but I swallowed it just to avoid embarrassment.

Then Ned leaned over and said: "No one really eats them, Janey!"

His dirty wee chuckle was so infectious.

I recall one particular Saturday there were some very well spoken, high-brow authors on the show and, afterwards in the pub, they were talking about their time at Oxford with Ned.

One chap turned to me and asked: "Did you go to up to Oxford, Janey?"

I had seven people stare at me in expectation of an answer and I suddenly felt too ashamed to say I had left school at 16.

Ned, sensing this, quickly added: "No, Janey didn't get an Oxford education. She is what the press would call 'educated scum'. She is from the gutsiest part of Glasgow."

The gathering stared, expecting me to be offended, but Ned added: "Real people, real life and a real education. Janey wrote a book that became a bestseller. Beat that, guys."

He never underestimated anyone and got the best out of everyone he chatted to on his radio show.

I was on Loose Ends last year when a particularly famous West End actress was a guest.

She was extremely flaky and the producers of the show were getting increasingly nervous as she sat in the green room, barking out complaints like a crack-addicted Mrs Danvers and rummaged through her handbag, shouting at everyone who looked at her.

Ned would have his work cut out here, I thought to myself. However, her interview was just amazing. As soon as she sat down, he recalled her first ever theatre performance and charmed her with a flourish of her best reviews, quoted word for word.

She became a complete pussycat in the master's hands. It was like watching a genius sculptor at work, plying every contour slowly but perfectly in front of your eyes. The show was sparkling and the woman sat there smiling in Ned's presence.

You could learn a lot from Ned.

He will be sorely missed, especially by the many new comics to whom he gave a break on Loose Ends.

LEFT TO FORGE AHEAD WITHOUT MY PAL TAM

TOM McAnea has been dubbed "Hologram Tam" and marked as a genius for his forging abilities. The police said he was one of the best counterfeiters in the UK when he was sentenced last week for taking part in a huge forgery scheme.

Tam is a good mate of mine and all my Edinburgh Fringe posters and flyers were made by Tam at Print Link.

The police have stated they have photos of suspect people going in and out of the shop late at night. Well, one of those images is sure to be of me, as I used to work with Tam on the night shift getting my posters designed.

If the police want to make an image out if it and print it to Tam's specification, then that would save me loads of cash, as the best printer I have ever known won't be making my publicity material for the next six years.

SOCK IT TO THE E-MAIL SCAMMERS

NIGERIAN spam scams are costing Britons £3.5 billion every year. I am stunned that people fall for this e-mail fraud. I personally love it and end up having an e-mail conversation with some nutter.

Mr Elode writes: "Dear Jenny, I am a doktor and I am in control of many money that belongs to you, write me back your bank account I will give this many money to you."

I write: "Dear Mr Elode, I too am doktor and I am sending you picture of my favourite sock, do you have one like this? Because it has lost its wife, here are the bank details you need to send me money 12345678 - Northern Rock - Brigadoon Branch Scotchland."

This correspondence can go on for months, with me sending pictures of various odd socks I keep in my drawer.

If nothing else, it is material for my comedy act!

OH, I SEE WHAT YOU MEAN!

I MADE an appointment to get my eyes tested after I couldn't see the difference between hairspray and deodorant in the bathroom last week. The words were blurred and I was in a rush.

The optician told me that the muscles at the back of the eye deteriorate with age; this made me want to poke her in the ear with her sharp pencil, but I couldn't see it clearly enough to do so.

I told her I wasn't old; it was just that my eyes have seen too much in my life and they are possibly worn out by it all.

She smiled patronisingly and shoved the big metal eye machine in my face and asked me to read out loud what appeared to be a line of dots that were illuminated on the back of her door.

I walked out £150 lighter and wearing reading glasses, but at least my hair looks better.