I’ve never been picked to take part in anything on a stage, but when Clive Anderson couldn’t find anyone to play “Judy” on the sofa during his chat show at the Assembly Rooms, I felt my moment had arrived. I raised a sweat–sodden arm and leapt into the limelight. Far from being pleased to see me, my friend Clive immediately had a fit.”I wanted an amateur,” he whinged, “not some bloody professional who’ll upstage me.” I refused to budge, basking in the floodlights and making a small damp patch on the sofa.I was only allowed one question per guest when Clive had finished with them, so I humbly asked our first victim, gay comedian Rhona Cameron, if she had ruched shower curtains or a “butch” bathroom. “Shut up,” barked Clive, “that question’s too good.” Then when I asked the controversial American comic Scott Capurro (creator of the “Holocaust” routine that so enraged the Guardian) which six people he’d like to cull, Clive was incandescent Soon afterwards I was politely asked to step down Still, we did make the front page of the Scotsman, Clive. I won’t be rushing back, it’s too sweaty a job for me, thanks very much.Floatworks, 1 Thrale Street, London, SE1 9HW (tel: 020 7357 0111)
More from Janet Street-Porter. I met Frankie Howerd in 1973 when I was presenting a daily radio show for LBC.

Sent to interview him in his dressing room at the London Palladium, where he was topping the bill in panto, I nervously waited for hours before being finally admitted to the inner sanctum. I don’t know who was the more tortured by the experience, Frankie or me. I met Frankie Howerd in 1973 when I was presenting a daily radio show for LBC. Sent to interview him in his dressing room at the London Palladium, where he was topping the bill in panto, I nervously waited for hours before being finally admitted to the inner sanctum. I don’t know who was the more tortured by the experience, Frankie or me.
The place was a total tip, half–eaten meals covered every surface, filthy underwear and discarded booze bottles lay forgotten on the floor Frankie was in a dressing gown that had seen better days. His toupee looked like a squirrel from Mars that had crash–landed on his head But I will never forget my encounter with my hero It consisted of a lot of “yes, no, yes, really? ooh … ahWhen I played the tape back Frankie had said nothing of any note, except that he was superstitious about having anything in his room and rehearsals were a trial which he loathed But if only I had had a camera.

The body language revealed everything.David Benson’s new one–man show at the Edinburgh Fringe starts with a sketch which encapsulates the horrific indeterminate, dithering insecurity of Howerd perfectly. In a recording studio an exhausted orchestra have had 14 unsuccessful attempts to record a Sinatra song. Frankie has stormed off and the producer is trying to placate all and sundry. Suddenly he spots young Nobby by the tea urn, who is sent to the master’s dressing room to whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Soon the show is back on the road.David Benson not only provides us with an uncanny rendition of Howerd’s mannerisms, but he brilliantly conjures up that gruesome Fifties showbiz world with its Val (Parnell), Dickies (Henderson and Valentine) and of course Alma (Cogan).Four years ago Benson took Edinburgh by storm with his tour–de–force show Think No Evil of Us based on the bizarre life of Kenneth Williams. Again not only did he fit into the skin of the camp genius perfectly, but he provided us with an astonishing glimpse into the tortured world of a man who was more obsessed with his bowel movements than almost anything else.Benson won awards and toured Think No Evil of Us for two years When I saw it in Edinburgh I was knocked out.