Robin Williams appreciation by Nigel Planer: 'He wouldn't be happy until the furniture was laughing'

1981. 4am, Brixton. Peter Richardson and I have heard that there's supposed to be a party at an address in Brixton, so we've gone down there after the gig at the Comedy Store. We have this squirty American guy with us, who's just played a blinding set at the store and looks a bit lost, so we invited him along.

When we get there, we don't have to ring on the bell, the door is hanging wide open. There are two people asleep on their feet leaning on each other dancing to the repetitive scratch from the long-finished vinyl on the mono record-player. On the floor are a couple of sleeping junkies. There's no booze left and ashtrays are full of butts. This is one dodgy party, like something Super Hans from Peep Show might have left three hours ago.