It was Di Gribble who introduced me to John Clarke. They’re both dead now, leaving that same sense of unfillable loss, of something just gone from life.
John was a man of many conversations and we shared more than a few. In corridors, on phones, in studios.
It always amazed me, early in the piece, that he made time, someone so accomplished, so well-known and adept. But it dawned on me eventually that having a chat was one of the things John liked most, perhaps second only to working.
There would have been other private priorities above these I know — to his family and closer friends — but ours was a particular conversation, full of ideas, wit and a constant fascination with literary and performance form. It had the intimacy of mutual fascination, but not a true closeness.
I used to joke, often to Gribble, about “the long no that is John Clarke”. John was careful, you see. In this time of fame pursued for its own sake, of every passing minute filled with a minute’s worth of senseless fluff, John was a steadying and sober hand.
He was careful of his reputation, and protective of his craft. He would never let a word of his venture out alone until he was utterly confident that it was polished to a certain, quiet, poised perfection.
He loved the boundaries of things, the way recognisable written and visual forms could be teased towards comedy. His satire was steeped in this, the way things are written and done…
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