Richard Hil I last saw Philip Rubinstein, two days before he passed away. ‘How’s it going Phil?’ I asked, rather inanely – he’d been unwell for some time. Phil raised his eyebrows, pointed to the heavens and said, ‘waiting’. I saw a familiar smile cross his face. It was a kind of gotcha moment delivered by one of my favourite secular humorists. Phil was never short of the ability to laugh at himself and the world around him. ‘Plenty of material’, he’d say. He was one of those ego-in-the-box characters, who makes the world go round: warm, witty and intelligent. A person too of eclectic interests: cricket, poetry, any songs by Frank Sinatra (