LONDON – He’s the king of absurd tales on Would I Lie to You?, the bloke who’ll casually confess to performing his own dentistry for 15 years or accidentally torching his house with fireworks, all delivered with that deadpan Middlesbrough twinkle that makes you snort-laugh mid-sentence. But on a quiet September afternoon in 2025, during a candid chat on The One Show, Bob Mortimer, 66, let the mask slip – not the comedy one, but the stoic one he’s worn since he was seven years old, when a policeman’s knock shattered his world. “I’m not very well,” he admitted, his voice dropping to that gravelly whisper that’s equal parts vulnerability and wry humour. “Yes, I might be fat, but actually, I’m on steroids… It takes until you’re 60 to realise all the things you could have done. At my age, we all feel 47, but then your body packs in.”

The studio went quiet. Co-host Alex Jones reached across the sofa, her hand lingering on his arm. Viewers at home? They hit pause, grabbed tissues, and fired up Google – not for Bob’s wildest anecdotes, but for rheumatoid arthritis support groups. Overnight, #BobMortimerStrong trended with 1.2 million posts, a tidal wave of fans sharing their own “hidden battles” and vowing to “fish like Bob” through the pain. Because if the man who turned a triple heart bypass into a BAFTA-winning fishing bromance can crack a joke about his joints swelling like “overripe bananas,” then maybe, just maybe, we can all keep casting our lines a little longer.

Bob’s story isn’t one of overnight stardom or silver-spoon luck – it’s a gritty Middlesbrough yarn of loss, reinvention, and a laugh that refuses to quit. Born Robert Renwick Mortimer on May 23, 1959, the middle of four boys in a terraced house off Linthorpe Road, his childhood was the stuff of Northern grit: Football in the street, fish suppers on Fridays, and a dad who’d sneak him extra biscuits. Then, at seven, everything cracked. His father, a racing driver, died in a horrific crash at Redcar Raceway – a fireball that left young Bob ushered away by coppers, shielded from the flames but not the fallout. “I just remember coming back home, being ushered away by policemen, not knowing what was happening,” he later reflected on BBC’s Desert Island Discs, his voice steady but eyes distant. “And then a couple of weeks later being told that my dad had died… and then crying and being very sad about it, then kind of forgetting about it really and thinking that it hadn’t affected me at all. But then, later in my life, [I realised] it was probably the defining moment of my life; it’s defined my personality.”

That defining scar? It forged a kid who buried grief under gallows humour, who’d rather tell tall tales than talk tears. After O-levels, Bob eyed electrician training but swerved to A-levels and law, qualifying as a solicitor and landing a gig in Peckham’s underbelly – defending petty thieves and dreaming of something bigger. “I was good at it, but it felt like pushing paper for someone else’s drama,” he quipped in a 2022 Radio Times interview. Then, 1986: A pint in a South London pub changes everything. Spotting comedian Vic Reeves mid-rant, Bob heckles from the bar – and gets dragged onstage for an impromptu “day in the life” skit. The crowd erupts. Vic? He spots gold. “Fancy doing this for a living?” Cue Vic Reeves Big Night Out – a surreal sketch fest that snags BBC and Channel 4 deals. Bob quits law mid-filming, never looks back. “Ten weeks off, and poof – solicitor gone, surrealist born.”

The duo’s alchemy – Vic’s manic energy, Bob’s dry absurdity – births cult hits: Shooting Stars, The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, sitcoms like Catterick. Bob’s solo stardom blooms in the 2010s: A Taskmaster legend, podcast king with The Joe Rogan Experience detours, and eternal Would I Lie to You? MVP, spinning yarns like the time he “invented a new swear word” during a dentist visit. Fans adore the chaos: “Bob’s stories are 90% bollocks, 10% genius – and 100% therapy,” tweeted @MortimerFanClub, summing up the 50 funniest Brits list he topped in 2023.

But beneath the punchlines? A body in quiet revolt. Rheumatoid arthritis – that autoimmune beast gnawing at joints like rust on old pipes – has dogged Bob since childhood. “Absolute agony,” he’s called it, hands ballooning like “boxing gloves stuffed with gravel,” wrists so stiff he once couldn’t grip a pint. Steroids tame the flares – swelling, stiffness in fingers, feet, everywhere – but it’s no cure, just a truce. “Treatable but not curable,” he shrugged in My Kind of Day for Radio Times. “It flares up with a major attack every now and then. I have to be careful because I have rheumatoid arthritis all over my body.” Then, 2015: The heart hammer falls. Triple bypass surgery – arteries clogged from years of fry-ups and fags – lays him low. “You can go two ways after heart surgery,” he told The Guardian later. “You can either get scared and just shrink onto your sofa… or you can engage with life again. I think I was probably in danger of taking the first option.”

Enter Paul Whitehouse – fellow comic, heart patient, fishing obsessive. “Paul just kept asking me, ‘Come on, let’s go fishing.’ He kept asking until eventually I did… and I absolutely adored it.” Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing (2018-) isn’t just TV gold – 4 series, BAFTA win, Netflix pickup – it’s therapy on a riverbank. Two blokes in wellies, rods dangling, chewing fat about dads, divorces, and “the point of it all” over catch-and-release trout. “I discovered something I’d lost from when I was young: just a purposeless day with a friend, just chewing the fat,” Bob reflected. It’s raw – Paul’s voice cracking on lost youth, Bob admitting arthritis makes casting “like wrestling an octopus” – but it heals. Viewers binge for the laughs, stay for the lumps in throats.

The September 2022 flare-up? A brutal reminder. Hospital-bound, steroids pumping, Bob faced the mirror: “I am not very healthy at the moment.” Fans rallied – #GetWellBob hit 500k tweets – but Bob? He fished on. Series 4 wrapped in 2024, with episodes shot in Devon’s misty streams, Bob’s hands bandaged but banter sharp. “Paul’s my lifeline,” he said on The One Show. “We don’t fix each other – we just sit there, failing together. And somehow, that’s enough.”

Today, Bob’s spark flickers brighter than ever. Married to comedian Lisa Jacobs since 2015 (they met on Shooting Stars; no kids, but dogs aplenty), he’s uncle to a gaggle of nephews who call him “the mad storyteller.” Future? A Gone Fishing US special with Joe Lycett, whispers of a Mortimer memoir (“If I can write it without my hands seizing up”). At 66, he’s no poster boy for invincibility – flares still hit, heart meds stack up – but he’s proof that pain doesn’t define you; persistence does.

“I’ve been in agony for years,” he confessed in that One Show moment, eyes misty but mouth quirking. “But fishing with a mate? That’s what keeps me going. A bad day on the river beats a good day at the desk any time.”

Bob Mortimer’s ongoing battle isn’t a sob story – it’s a masterclass in showing up. From a seven-year-old boy forgetting his grief to a comedy icon reeling in rainbows with a swollen grip, he’s defined by the spark that won’t quit. Fans, take note: Your body might pack in at 47, but your fight? That’s timeless.

If Bob’s tale tugs at you, support Versus Arthritis (versusarthritis.org) or grab Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing on BBC iPlayer. Because as Bob would say, “Life’s too short for bad rods – or bad mates.”