When my father died, on February 28th, 1998, I wasn’t with him. He was in London and I was in Blackrock, with my brother and some friends. In my mind he could as easily have popped out for a newspaper and a late-night pint as have collapsed at home in the company of family and friends. I can only assume he died, and that it wasn’t a very sick joke on his part, although I wouldn’t put it past him. He was a brat that way. Since then my relationship with him has become an irresistible detective story, where I keep looking around for the essence of him, discovering more clues. But every time I think I’m getting close to him I realise I’m not. Twenty years on, here’s what I know about the ex-Dermot Morgan, who shuffled off this mortal coil to join his heroes Dr Chapman, Dean Swift, Lenny Bruce and Marty Feldman in the choir invisible.