THE sad death earlier this week of the Squire of Knotty Ash, Sir Ken Dodd, took me back to the days of my youth, when listening to Doddy on a Sunday morning on the family stereogram was the highlight of the week.

He hadn’t quite made the breakthrough to the big time then, and his wireless programme conjured up a magical world of make believe in the surreal Knotty Ash, where people worked at the jam butty mines, the gravy wells and collected their breakfasts from the black pudding plantation.

He bubbled with comic genius, whether it be via Nigel Ponsonsby Smallpiece, Mick the Marmaliser, Dicky Mint or the rest of the Diddy men, or conducting the never-ending search for his clothing in the classic Where’s Me Shirt? series of sketches.

The appeal of the wild-haired comic with the condemned tombstone teeth was summed up when Mrs Hextol and I were on an aeroplane bound for sunny climes, which had only just taken off from Newcastle when it had to make an unscheduled stop at Gatwick for “technical reasons”.

As the delay lengthened, the mood of the frustrated jetaway Geordies on board was starting to turn a little ugly until the decision was taken to show a Ken Dodd one man show on the onboard television system.

The plane was soon rocking with unfeigned hilarity – until the transmission was halted by a breathless stewardess who declared: “We are delighted to announce the technical issue has been resolved, and we will soon be on our way again.”

The end of her announcement was lost in a roar of anger, and the journey was not resumed until Doddy had finished his performance!

It wasn’t just Doddy who lit up our lives from the stereogram, which took up half the living room and was used far more often that the old black and white television.

There were other brilliant shows on the wireless, my personal favourite being Round the Horne, including the immortal Festoon a Gnome with Bacon Rind sketch which would probably be banned these days.

There were also request shows such as Housewives’ Choice and Two Way Family Favourites, not to mention Uncle Mac’s Children’s Favourites, with its endless recycling of the New Christy Minstrels’ One Wheel on My Wagon, Sparky’s Magic Piano and Greig’s In the Hall of the Mountain King.

We acquired the stereogram in the way we picked up many things in the late 1950s – from an uncle who was a window cleaner specialising in eccentric customers, who more often than not paid him by barter rather than hard cash.

I recall him being given bags of potatoes, a mangle and poss tub and a live weasel by non-paying customers, and the stereogram was handed over by a man who had not paid his window bill for several years.

It clearly grieved the customer to part with the gleaming piece of furniture, and my uncle didn’t have the heart to refuse it, even though it was of absolutely no use to him – his ancient silk weaver’s cottage had no electricity supply, and was lit entirely by gas.

So my uncle passed it on to us, along with a collection of ancient 78 records, including The Laughing Policeman by Charles Penrose, virtually every record ever made by Jimmy Shand and his Band, and a truly memorable version of the cup final hymn Abide with Me dragged up from the boots of legendary contralto Dame Clara Butt.

Later we were given more modern records to play – still 78s, but featuring skiffle stars such as Lonnie Donegan singing Cumberland Gap and Rock Island Line, and Cliff Richard’s Move it. We loved them

Alas, the heavy use of the stereogram resulted in serious wear and tear to the controls, notably the volume button which doubled as the on-off switch.

There were eventually only two settings – full blast or off, my father insisting on the latter whenever he was in the house.

When the stereogram finally gave up the ghost my brother and I thought it only fitting it be given a proper and fitting Viking’s funeral – we set fire to it in the middle of a puddle in the back garden.