Freddie Starr on the wane

It's hard not to think of Alan Partridge when Freddie Starr asks us to meet him at the Holiday Inn - the one just off the M40 near High Wycombe. This is a man who has just been cruelly portrayed in a TV documentary as a vain egomaniac, deserted by his friends and family, a fallen star with an out-of-date act who can't find work any more and harbours a grudge about it all. It's tempting to stroll straight past the salesmen in the reception and ask if Mr Partridge, sorry, Mr Starr, is in his room. But he arrives from the direction of the car park, looking miserable, and announces that his wife died last night. It is, of course, a "joke".

Freddie Starr used to be a famous comedian. He became a huge star at the 1970 Royal Variety Show and was best known for his impression of Hitler in Wellington boots. Then he became even more famous for being the butt of one of The Sun's most famous headlines: "Freddie Starr Ate My Hamster". It was one of the paper's (and PR stuntman Max Clifford's) finest moments.

But that, as Freddie reminds us in the autobiography he is plugging today, was 15 years ago. Since then, he has periodically reappeared in the tabloids in less light-hearted stories: hitting his son (who called the police and now won't speak to him), assaulting a Sun reporter (who found him living in a mobile home), allegations of the the odd three-in-a-bed romp, even a gay-sex claim. Now, at 57, his career has ground to a halt and none of his four children, nor his ex-wife, nor his brother, will speak to him.

In the recent Channel 4 documentary, Max Clifford said none of Freddie's former friends want to know him any more, adding: "The only person Freddie Starr has ever loved or cared for is Freddie Starr."

This may explain why he seems so sorrowful when we meet. At first he talks about how people are always telling him he should be back on the telly and how 4.5 million people watched the recent Channel 4 documentary: "That's the sort of pulling power that Freddie Starr has got - I can't help that." Now he's raised a petition signed by "thousands and thousands" of his fans to send to C4, complaining that it stitched him up. He talks of his plans for new shows, on TV and in the West End, and of how he's regarded by TV chiefs today as a bit of a liability. "I don't think they have much trust in me," he admits.

"People think the TV today is crap," he insists. "How many physically funny men can walk on stage and not say a word for 10 minutes and get a laugh?" I'm still trying to guess when he answers for me. "Only one person - Freddie Starr."

The trumpet-blowing goes on a little longer as he rails against Big Brother: "They shag each other, sell the story to the tabloids and fade away. I've been around for 40 years. I must be doing something right to stay at the top. I've mixed with the best: Elvis Presley, Muhammad Ali, Sammy Davis Jnr, Jerry Lewis." His eyes look glazed beneath the silvery Stringfellow bouffant. "If we were in America now we wouldn't be having this conversation because they look after their stars."

As he lights another Spanish duty-free cigarette, it's as if the red-hot tip has punctured the receptacle for all that puffed-up pride. At once the facade begins to drop and he starts talking of his mistakes and how sorry he is for making them. Most of all he's sorry for the mess he made of his second marriage. Neither his ex-wife Sandy, nor their three children, have spoken to him for several years. The last time he spoke to his son Jody, Freddie ended up slapping him and spent nine hours in a police cell.

Now he's repentant. He has not worked for two years and says he is emerging from a 20-year cocoon caused by his addiction to Valium; his speech is still slurred as a result. One of the worst side effects, he says, is that it makes you feel you are never wrong. "And that's a bad thing. You are there to be shot down in flames. When you have a clear mind you can look in the mirror and face your own image. I've done that. And I realised my purpose is to make people laugh - that's all."

He can still remember the first time he took Valium."After 20 minutes, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my mind and I felt balanced. I thought, 'These are good!' But after three years, I was destroying myself, destroying my marriage, destroying a lot of things. And that was self-inflicted. I hold myself totally responsible. Now I am clear and I can see what I have done and I am very sorry."

Alcohol was never his drug of choice. "I don't drink because I saw my dad drink and my brother drink," he explains, darkly. Did his father, a bricklayer and bareknuckle fighter in poverty stricken, postwar Liverpool, slap him around when he was drunk, perhaps? "Never mind slap me, he used to punch me - sometimes spark out." His father died when Freddie was in his teens and in his book he idealises him as a working-class hero who would use his fists only to defend his honour.

He still refuses to see him as a violent man. "He was very Victorian. But he never picked a fight in his life. He always tried to talk to people first and ask for a word in their ear. But if they cornered him, he would let go."