Jack Dee started wearing a suit on stage only so that he wouldn't resemble a student

Funny things, comic geniuses. While their on-stage paraphernalia could hardly be more spare - microphone, spotlight, audience - there is a crazed phalanx of people with headsets and Blackberrys behind each one, paddling like hell. I'm in Soho to meet Jack Dee, he of the sharp suits and deadpan delivery, who has a new television series, which means a big publicity campaign for him.

I arrive at the offices of his TV company. As I am buzzed in, a young black guy clutching a videotape takes advantage of the momentarily open door to come in behind me. I know this to be the case because he has no appointment. He sidles up hopefully to the receptionist. He has a tape; it's a show reel. No, it's a documentary. No, it's a film. It's anything that the receptionist wants it to be.

He glances about. "Is there a studio here? I have an act." The receptionist scribbles down a contact number on a Post-it note and, not unkindly, shows him the door. This, dear reader, is how you start off in comedy, unless you are in the Footlights.

Actually, Jack Dee, who did not go to Oxbridge, started off at the Comedy Store, and wore a suit because he didn't want to look like a student in a Footlights T-shirt. I have to wait, because he is talking to someone from Now magazine who has a list of reader's questions for him. This morning, he was interviewed by the Mail. I'm interviewing him for the Times. Apparently he hates interviews.

Meanwhile, an old friend turns up. We used to work together in Liverpool as researchers for Richard and Judy's morning show. She looked after the celebrity guests, I looked after the celebrity gardener. This meant she dealt with the demands of Vic and Bob, while I coped with the demands of Monty Don (a much easier task). Both of us used to run away from the demands of Judy. My friend is preparing for the autumn run of Jonathan Ross's Friday-night chat show, which she produces.

I compliment her on being in charge of a hit. She confesses she fears that he might suddenly tire of fronting a peak-time show with guests and live music (as if), in which case she might be a producer without a production. As if. But the celebrity support system in which both she and I exist is nurtured wholly by the creativity of the "talent", and, as such, is vulnerable.

Eventually, Now is then, and I am ushered into a room dominated by a vast poster of Dee. The man himself is unsuited, small and knackered-looking. Is he grumpy? He acknowledges that his celebrated grouchiness is a character trait, "which you learn enough about in order to have a voice on stage". Is he happy? "My career goes OK." But the walls are festooned with Radio Times covers and posters emblazoned with his face. "This is a production company and I make these shows, so they put them up. I'd rather they didn't."

How about his public profile? "It's nice to have people coming up in the street, and I know that most shopworkers, for example, don't get stopped and told, 'Thanks. You sold me a really good vacuum cleaner.' But I judge success on a day-by-day basis. You are as good as your last show. All the rest is a complete by-product. I have never quite understood people who are thrilled to bits with what they have done. To me, it's all a bit darker than that." After an hour, I hand Dee over to the Times photographer.

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