We claim to love artists like Ken Dodd – so why can’t we respect their wishes?

Ken Dodd’s notebooks are part of a new exhibition in Liverpool, despite the legendary comedian requesting that they be destroyed after his death. Luke Wright asks: where do we draw the line between artist and audience?

My brief encounter with Dodd left me with no doubt that he was a pure artist (Rex Features)

I saw Ken Dodd perform only once: in December 2015, at the Civic Hall in Wolverhampton. I was on the road with John Cooper Clarke. We were in the 400-seater downstairs, while Dodd was upstairs in the big room. He started at 7pm. We started at 8. We’d both finished our sets, entertained the usual backstage mob of ex-punks (Johnny’s crowd) and English teachers (mine), and polished off the rider before we ambled upstairs to “catch a bit of Doddy”.

It was about 11pm by then, but he was still going strong, reeling off gag after gag after gag after gag after gag after gag after gag. At a quarter to midnight, he took a comfort break. Some people left, others got out their Thermoses and blankets. After 10 minutes he was back, and the sledgehammer of gags started up again. Some were awful, others brilliant. After a particularly inspired line, Johnny Clarke would reach for his pen and whisper: “Here, shine that skyper (Johnny’s word for a phone) over here, kid – I’m having that.”