Two years ago tonight, the lights dimmed on one of Britain’s brightest stars. Paul O’Grady, 67, died suddenly of cardiac arrhythmia at his home in Kent, leaving behind a nation that felt it had lost not just a comedian, but a friend. In the weeks that followed, the tributes poured in: rainbow flags at half-mast outside the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, Battersea Dogs & Cats Home renamed its intake wing “Paul’s Place,” and thousands of ordinary people simply writing on social media, “Lovely Paul O’Grady,” as if saying his name aloud might bring him back for one more cuppa and a gossip.

Two years on, the grief hasn’t faded; it’s settled into something softer, warmer. A national hug that refuses to let go.

Because Paul wasn’t just funny. He was safe. In a world that often felt cruel, he was the friend who’d sit on the sofa with you, cigarette in one hand, rescue dog on his lap, and tell you it would all be all right, love, while making you laugh so hard you forgot why you were crying in the first place.

You remember Lily Savage first, don’t you? The peroxide-blonde, stiletto-heeled, acid-tongued drag queen who stormed out of the gay clubs of south London and onto prime-time ITV like a glorious hurricane. Lily could silence a heckler with a single raised eyebrow and a line so filthy the censor nearly choked on his clipboard. Yet somehow, even at her most outrageous, she never felt mean. She was protecting her own, always. “I’m not everyone’s cup of tea,” Lily used to purr, “but I’m somebody’s double vodka.”

Then, almost overnight, Paul stepped out from behind the wig and the lashes and became… Paul. Warm Scouse vowels, twinkling eyes, a cardigan that looked slept in. He didn’t lose the mischief; he just let the kindness take centre stage. For the Love of Dogs became appointment television not because of the puppies, but because you got to watch a grown man melt every time a terrified staffie finally wagged its tail. When he cried on camera the day Buster, his beloved shih-tzu, died, half the country reached for the tissues with him.

He never pretended to be perfect. He’d swear like a docker, smoke like a chimney, and tell you straight: “I’m a mess, darling, but I’m a kind mess.” And that was the magic. Paul gave millions of people permission to be a bit broken, a bit rough round the edges, and still worthy of love.

Battersea still feels his absence like a missing heartbeat. Staff talk about the day he arrived unannounced with a boot full of blankets and £10,000 he’d raised from a single theatre gig. “He didn’t want a plaque or a photo,” one kennel worker remembers. “He just wanted to know which dog had been there longest and whether they liked cheese.” He rehomed dozens himself and fought for the ones who never made it out, raising millions and changing laws along the way.

Even in his final months, when his own heart was giving up, he was still sneaking extra sausage rolls to the dogs on set. “If I pop off tomorrow,” he told a producer, “make sure the dogs get the rest of my lunch.”

Tonight, ITV airs a special tribute: unseen footage from his last series, home videos sent in by viewers, and a montage of strangers in pubs and care homes quietly raising a glass and saying, “To lovely Paul.” The Royal Vauxhall Tavern has declared 10 December “Paul O’Grady Day” forever; the first 50 people through the door get a free Babycham in honour of Lily.

His partner Andre Portasio, who held his hand at the end, said it best: “He always told me, ‘When I go, no tears. Just play “It’s Raining Men” and have a bloody good knees-up.’ So that’s what we’re doing.”

Two years gone, and Britain still can’t switch the telly on without half-expecting him to shuffle into frame, light a fag, and tell the nation, “All right, you lot, behave.”

He was, and remains, the kindest man on television.

And somehow, saying “Lovely Paul O’Grady” still feels like sending love to a friend who might just hear it, wherever he is, probably sneaking treats to an angel with four paws and a wagging tail.

Rest easy, queen. We’ve got the dogs. We’ve got the heart. And we’ve still got you.