Farewell Parky and the golden age of Hollywood – and thanks for unveiling Scottish icon the Big Yin - Susan Morrison

Ah, good night and sweet rest, Sir Michael Parkinson. You were appointment viewing back in the days when we all sat on a mustard coloured sofa made of weird leathery stuff that made a very rude noise if you sat down too quickly on it.

Mum made us practise soft landings to stop the trumping, but failed to inform the minister when he came a-calling one evening.

He spoke to everyone. Parky, that is, not the minister. He was more reserved.

We saw the last of a golden age of Hollywood chatting to Mr Parkinson, and he wasn't afraid to look and sound as starstruck as the rest of us.

Some part of Michael Parkinson was always the Barnsley lad who watched and adored Ingrid Bergman, Fred Astaire and Lauren Bacall on the big screen. When they walked down the stairs to meet him, you could see that little boy in his face. Not for him the too cool for school air of a hipster interviewer.

He wasn’t there to ask awkward questions, to pry out tearful confessions and snottery apologies. You were watching a couple of folk have a blether, it just so happened that some of them were amazingly famous.

He also let them be themselves, revealing some surprising talents. Sometimes they were good. David Niven and Kenneth Williams told stories that had you weeping with laughter.

Sometimes they were endearingly terrible. James Stewart read some of his poetry. It wasn’t great, but it was better than Kirk Douglas’ singing.

Parky had a live orchestra, and Mr Douglas insisted that they accompany him singing. I believe he sang about Old London Town. He was utterly dreadful.

When he finished murdering the song he turned to Parky, looking mighty pleased with himself. Everyone, he said, should get a chance to sing. Even the people who can’t sing.

I hate to sound like this was a life lesson for me, but it was. People should be encouraged to do things they like, even if they are rubbish. Let's put it this way, Kirk would have been allowed to sing at Hogmanay in our house. But only once.

And of course, for viewers in Scotland, there was the night when he unleashed Billy Connolly on the world. We all knew who he was. Why, who among us hadn’t listened and loved his unforgettable re-telling of the Crucifiction? Well, Pastor Jack Glass for one, I suppose. But jings, here he was on the telly.

My mother was gobsmacked. She couldn’t believe it. How, she said to my dad, who presumably had a hot line to the show's bookers, did that happen?

It's hard to remember now, but before he spoke, Scotland collectively held its breath. Would this be another one of those awkward moments when the English just don’t get us? Will the accent be too scary? Will it turn out that the Big Yin just wasn’t as funny as we thought?

Nah. The rest, as they say, is history. But funny as Billy was, it was watching Parky that was joyous. He was never afraid to look like he was enjoying himself and that too was a great life lesson.

Thank you, Sir Michael. By the way, you were right to wallop that bloody emu with your clipboard. We’d wanted to do that for years.