When Terry Jones died earlier this year, many of the tributes featured pictures of him in happier times. Editors seemed especially keen on shots where he was sat in front of that famous oil-painting of him perched on a stool, wearing nothing but a tie, playing the piano with his bum on display.
That wasn’t the only nudey portrait hanging in the hallways of his Dulwich home. There was one of him wearing a crown and an ermine cape, clutching an ornament and sceptre, sat upon a throne, starkers.
And, according to a delivery driver who once dropped off some cases of wine, there was another one on the wall by the cellar door of close family members.
None of whom had a stitch on either.