Mr Keith Fortner (6/7) By The Silver Fox

(1/7), (2/7), (3/7), (4/7), (5/7), (6/7), (7/7).

It came then, as a shock to everybody in the loop to learn that Maelstrom Media (the production company with which Keith had enjoyed a long and fruitful association for more than a decade) had not only passed on his idea for "The Reality Show To End All Reality Shows" but had also reneged on the unprecedented "golden handcuffs" deal that was rumoured to be worth almost £2m. What, various insiders wondered, could have caused such a rift? Speculation grew even more rampant when Maelstrom's chairman was heard to remark that the severance with Keith was "cheap at the price to be rid of that deranged little shit."

The answer, as is now widely-known, lies in three short words: Paedophile Temptation Island. Characteristically, PTI was Keith's daring and innovative twist on a proven formula: ten convicted child-molesters would live on an island for one month, their only company a troop of Boy Scout Cubs.

The winner of the game - as in the original - would be the nonce who did not succumb to the temptation of violating one of the rosy-cheeked campers.

Despite Keith's assurance that the safety of the boys in question would never be compromised (the island would be virtually saturated with cameras and recording equipment, and marksmen armed with tranquilliser guns would constantly patrol its perimeter by boat and helicopter, so that the most sinister thing any cub would be exposed to would be an over-eager offer of a Werther's Original and a lewd grimace), that the show would provide invaluable insights into the nature of adults who prey on children that would certainly be of use in rehabilitating both emergent and existing nonces, and that it would provide a wholesome month of outdoor exercise for the kids, the industry closed ranks against him.

Nobody wanted anything to do with Keith Fortner or any of his ideas again. Outcast, dejected, and (in his own mind) martyred, Keith quite naturally moved to Hull.

Which is where I met him - on Beverley Road, as it happens. It was one of those gorgeous early-summer days that calls for all of us with lively hearts and flexible schedules to go out into the sunshine, load up on cheap sherry, and subject the ducks in Pearson Park to a bit of jocosely crapulent abuse; I'd popped to the Kwik Save for a top-up, and that's when I came upon TVs erstwhile wunderkind. He was throwing up into a bin. I've always been touched by those in dire straits (especially when they still retain the decency to find a receptacle for their regurgitated white cider and Value Sausage Rolls), so I asked him if there was anything I could do.

He looked at me blearily for a few moments before parting his vomit-flecked lips into a benign smile. "I fucking doubt it, son." he said, "Not unless you're the head of a production company."

Assuming that he was just another drunk and that there was nothing wrong with him that more of the same wouldn't put right (or solve permanently, so to speak) I was about to turn away and enter the shop when he stuck out a cracked and greasy hand and introduced himself as Keith Fortner. Having an unusually retentive memory for anything I see on TV, I recognised the name instantly: being a deeply suspicious scrote with no small experience of the alcoholic and unhinged, I tipped my hat, told him I was Robert Evans, and advised him to go and fuck himself.

"Come off it, mate," he wheedled, "who'd pretend to be some bloke that hardly anybody in the real world's ever heard of, eh?" I paused. Along with a particularly revolting gust of halitosis, the statement carried a certain logic. I decided to give him a chance.

"Wait out here a sec, will you?" I told him, "I'm just popping in to get a drink." When I emerged, two bottles of Agua Loca Roja clinking merrily in my carrier bag, my new pal was wiping his mouth with a filthy sleeve - ostensibly for the purposes of removing bile from it, I supposed, although in fact, he seemed to be overlaying the existing coating with the slightly drier residue of an earlier bender. "Fancy a wallop?" I asked him. He nodded eagerly and made a strange howling noise I took to be one of approval, and we headed off to the park.

We spoke for several hours that day, and I became convinced: this wretched, booze-addled hulk was none other than the very same Keith Fortner whose comedies had so inspired me back in the dim and distant past when I was still inspired by things. He told me about his life and his work with an insight that could only have come from genuine, first-hand knowledge, and a recall that was remarkable for one in his condition. What also impressed me was his reaction to his career's sudden, shocking decline:

Continued...Next Page (7/7)

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