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I travelled the world at someone else's expense and shared the finest food with millions. Truly I was blessed. Thank you and au revoir; After his sudden death, a fittingly; stylish finale to the memoirs of a peerless bon viveur.

Article Excerpt
Byline: BY KEITH FLOYD

ALL this week, the Mail has been serialising Keith Floyd's witty and touching autobiography. After his sudden death on Monday, we publish our last extract, in which he reflects on his tangles with television bosses, poignantly looks back on his fame -- and concludes, after all, that fortune smiled on him.

BEFORE I wrap up, we need to talk about the BBC and its wine-and-dine culture -- or in the case of its presenters, its lack of it. In all the years I made programmes for them, the BBC's money was never spent on schmoozing me. Quite the contrary.

Lofty and grand, the BBC does not invite you to events. It instructs you to be there.

One year I was told to turn up to a Christmas party being hosted by the board of governors at Broadcasting House.

A man came up to me, shook my hand and started chatting.

He was one of the few guests not to be an octogenarian, and I noticed he was wearing high-heeled cowboy boots with winklepicker-type toes to them. I assumed he was a disc jockey.

Disc jockey: 'So what do you think of the BBC then?' Me: 'Well, since you ask, I think that it's absolutely c**p.' A second or two later, he'd scurried away in his cowboy boots and vanished into the crowd. He turned out to be the next controller...

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