Andy Richardson: Hall good things come to those who wait

In a career that encompassed more than 2,000 interviews, the talk show host tried and failed to get Ol' Blue Eyes on the box.

By all accounts, he came pretty close. Somehow, however, the King of the Rat Pack got away: a big fish who refused to bite.

The Specials frontman Terry Hall is my Frank Sinatra.

The Coventry-born singer with The Specials and Fun Boy Three is formidably difficult to reach.

In the time I've been pursuing him, I could have become a dad four times over – though I'd have needed a very understanding and agreeable partner to have that many kids in three years.

More probably, I could have travelled 28,000 miles and visited Britain's 24,727 pubs and enjoyed a pint in each.

Curiously, three years is how long scientists believe it would take to achieve a Full Britain Pub Crawl – though why scientists are working out stuff like that rather than doing useful stuff like working out a genetic formula to make us as cheerful as Lisa Riley, as good looking as Paul Newman, as charming as Sir Roger Moore and as good in the kitchen as Michel Roux beats me. Too many research grants is my guess.

But it's been three years. And my guess is it'll be another two before the Mountie gets his man. And don't ask me why I'm referencing the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in a column about Terry Hall. I just don't know.

Like Parky and Sinatra, I've come pretty close. Actually, that's an understatement.

Last night I was standing in a bar talking to Terry and shaking his hand after watching him perform. And no, I'm neither delusional nor a fantasist.

In The Garden Room at Leicester De Montfort Hall, Terry came to say 'hello' to one or two friends – that's not me, I should add, it's the people I was with.

We smiled, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries.

And I didn't blurt: "Terry, can I interview you, pleeeaase?" because I'd have looked like a plonker if I'd done so. And so the wait goes on.

There are rules of engagement for interviewer and interviewee. And the first is that things go through the proper channels.

Like Brexit negotiations or divorce settlements, you're not allowed to cut to the chase and do things the way normal people might. You know, a quick: "Does this sound fair, are you happy with that? Fine, then we'll shake hands."

Instead, they coincide with the promotion of records and tours.

And, with one or two notable exceptions – thank you Paul Weller, Noel Gallagher and David Walliams – those who have sold as many tickets as they need to sell don't allocate time to writers.

So, as every tour by The Specials sells out without the need for any promotion, Terry doesn't have to subject himself to a 15-minute telephone interrogation, however benign that might be.

He visited Wolverhampton last week and I apologise that we didn't have an interview to go with it; it wasn't for lack of effort.

My email outbox contains more emails chasing up an interview with Terry Hall than a SPAM account. Hillary Clinton probably sent less when she was using a dodgy server.

It's not difficult to understand the diffidence of the man who sang Ghost Town, Too Much Too Young, It Ain't What You Do (It's The Way That You Do It) and Rat Race.

A naturally quiet and reserved man, Terry is one of the funniest and most acerbic men alive when he's feeling comfortable.

But he isn't forward in coming forward. So after the gig in Leicester, his guard dropped when he was among friends.

Briefly, he was alert and amusing, happy and carefree.

And then his fans dived in. And while posing for the obligatory after show selfie and smiling wanly, he visibly recoiled before making polite excuses to leave.

Parky always sought guests who had a story to tell.

He wasn't only interested in people who were well known. He wanted people who'd got something to say. As his chat show series continued, he chewed the fat with Muhammad Ali, Bing Crosby, George Best, Bob Hope, Peter Ustinov, Shirley MacLaine, Robert Redford, Tina Turner, Jennifer Lopez, Tom Hanks, Morecambe and Wise, Rod Stewart, Phil Collins, Robbie Williams and Sandra Bullock. But all the time, he was waiting for Frank. And Frank never came.

Our list of Weekend interviewees can't match those of Sir Michael. Hell, Midge Ure and Phill Jupitus are lovely fellas, but Gene Kelly they ain't. But we keep pushing.

And while Terry has eluded us once more, we remain on the case. Soon, he'll agree to take our call. And then we'll start talking and stop building Castles In The Air.