Mel Giedroyc is just finishing a photoshoot in a studio in south-west London, and rushes up to greet me, apologising that she has to get changed before we talk, because she’s in ridiculous clothes. So she goes off in an I [heart] New York T-shirt, and then comes back in her own clothes: dungarees.
She has always given an impression of a rare lack of vanity, a person who sees her appearance as just another tool in her clowning toolbox, like juggling balls. And that’s partly true, she says, but only up to a point. “Sue [Perkins, her long-term comic partner] and I have always said, when it comes to it, we’ll do what needs to be done.” We’re talking about Botox, fillers, that kind of stuff. “I’m 54, she’s 52, she’s weirdly perfect. I keep saying: ‘Have you gone behind my back?’ We’ve always said to each other: if we do it, we’ll do it together. And we’ll go to Armenia slash Latvia.’”
