I was feeling lately that Roger Moore was ever-present: I watched an interview on a movie channel two weeks ago; I watched Live and Let Die and The Man With the Golden Gun as well as The Man Who Haunted Himself over the past week; and thanks to True Entertainment I’ve been watching The Persuaders! every night, where he dons his own range of clothing – and they really do maketh this most charming of men. So it comes as a shock on this saddest of days to learn that he has died. He was a huge TV star after several years in Hollywood – where he made his debut opposite Elizabeth Taylor: not too shabby. He described his getup in TV’s Ivanhoe as a mediaeval fireman. He did Maverick until the scripts deteriorated to the point where it was intolerable. He became The Saint. He was frequently voted the Best James Bond because he was so utterly, effortlessly suave and funny, even in that demanding action role, and his self-deprecation carried over into all his public appearances, even accepting and adopting the cruel Spitting Image imitation of his eyebrow acting. He was so unfeasibly handsome he could play a millionaire who makes himself over to be Roger Moore in The Cannonball Run; voice himself in that Bond-heavy parody Cats & Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore; and do An Audience With … evenings in theatres the length and breadth of the UK retelling stories that he recounted hilariously in a series of memoirs. I loved him because he was the first James Bond I was old enough to see on the big screen, in Moonraker. His movies dominated my weekend afternoons throughout the Eighties – and still do. His humanitarian work overtook his film appearances in later years but he remained what he was the first day he modelled a sweater in the 1940s – a ridiculously good looking, phenomenally nice, underrated star.