Seeing Graham Norton live at the Watford Colosseum on Monday reminded me of what the veteran actor Michael Caine once said about the secret of his long and happy marriage to his wife Shakira being, quite simply, separate bathrooms.

Norton, pictured,  is currently on tour promoting his frank and very funny memoir The Life and Loves of a He Devil, which contains seven stand-alone chapters on the great loves that have shaped his life. 

Fortunately, the book is not a sentimental revisiting of all his love affairs (although the chapter on the men he has loved, lusted after and lost is one of the longest in the book). 

And be warned, it is also - look away now if you’re of a sensitive disposition - one of the raciest. 
Instead, Norton romps cheerfully and candidly through the things that make him happy, namely dogs, Ireland, New York, divas (particularly Madonna, Cher, Dolly Parton and Liza Minelli), booze, men and work. 

He reworked some of the book’s anecdotes in his show, with impeccable comic timing, a camp roll of the eyes and that arch emphasis on certain syllables (as in sooo Graham Norton), that are his trademark.
If like me you are sick of "misery memoirs" that bang on about some B lister’s deprived childhood, you will find Norton refreshingly upbeat and lacking in self-pity for his failures, particularly in relationships. 

There was no unconvincing tosh on Monday about "not needing anyone", no luvvie waffle about his "art" being able to flourish better when he is on his own, just straightforward Irish wisdom about preferring to live alone than see the towels folded incorrectly. 

"Love’s great, but a tidy bathroom’s priceless," he said.

He was equally frank about his notorious drinking habits and about the sorry business of ageing, with a self-deprecating reference to the relief he feels at having finally grown into his eye bags.

"If I had plastic surgery I’d look like a fish that’s been dragged through a keyhole," he told us.

The show was a taste of a wonderfully uplifting memoir, which is perfect to dip into.

Even the epilogue on things he loves to hate is mercifully short, with restaurants that offer "a menu concept" but no real food; endless drunken holiday snaps of people he’s never met on social media sites and the indignity of getting undressed and dressed on beach holidays being among his targets.  

For the life of me, I can’t understand why someone as human and funny as Graham Norton isn’t loved-up. 

For what it’s worth, my own sooo practical advice on making a marriage work is to make sure you know before you start that you know what the other enjoys doing on wet Sundays in November.

If you both like curling up with a good book, or are happy to choose such times for de-scaling the bathroom taps together, your union stands a good chance of lasting.

If however, one of you likes to spend your weekends hang-gliding and the other prefers to stay in and play Scrabble, you probably shouldn’t be getting hitched in the first place.

Norton said he  realised he was getting old when he enquired about shampoo in a chemist’s shop and found himself directed by the young assistant to the hair-thinning products.

As someone who is only a year older than Norton, I sympathise. 

My own reminder of the passing of years came recently when I went to get my eyebrows waxed and cracked a joke about getting my Dennis Healeys done, only to be met by a blank stare from the young beautician.  

I confess to also feeling my age when watching The Angry Brigade at Watford Palace Theatre last week...

It started out well enough as an intriguing undercover hunt for the members of The Angry Brigade, a self-styled terrorist group of the early 1970s who wanted to bring down the Tory government, the police, the judiciary and for all I know the WI and every golf club in the country. 

Sadly, it ended up sounding like a rant from an over-indulged undergraduate who wants to rebel against all his privileges before he grows up and starts to enjoy them again.

The play was, literally a play of two halves, with the first half devoted to the investigation into the motives of the home-grown young terrorists whose middle-class identities shocked the nation. 

After the interval, the four police investigators morphed seamlessly into the young firebrands themselves, although the action could have been reversed; in the true spirit of anarchy, the programme told us that the two halves can be played in whichever order you like. 

I can’t fault the versatility or talent of the actors, who succeeded brilliantly in holding together an inconsistent script about imperialism, authority and the horrors of the bourgeoisie and I secretly envied the hotheads their youthful enthusiasm for their cause and the naiveté with which they pursed it. 

Even so, I left the theatre wanting to shout "grow up" at the lot of them.

Perhaps I’m getting old.

The Life and Loves of a He Devil by Graham Norton is published by Hodder and Stoughton, price £20.