Is his smile sneerier still since 23 June 2016, I wonder?īrexit and Windrush, too, perhaps, add a little piquancy to Stath Lets Flats, the well-established immigrant community feeling a little less secure. The tall, blond, arrogant Smethwicks agent, looks down disdainfully on his neighbours. It could be Foxtons, but it’s actually called Smethwicks, with whom Vasos has an ongoing wheelie-bin feud. Meanwhile, next door is a posher, more English estate agent. There’s also a pigeon on the loose in the loft of one Michael & Eagle property, which ends up, inevitably, with pigeon v Stath and three smashed tellies. But then Al is whacked in the face by a spinning flipchart, spun by Stath, of course, and Sophie tries to take him to the hospital, although what she thought was a hospital (because it was a big building) turns out to be just that, a big building, an office. Sophie is less interested in managing the business, more interested – weirdly – in Al (Alastair Roberts) in the office.

(At this point Stath would probably say something inappropriate.) What must it have been like in the Demetriou household, with two wannabe standup/comic actors? Wannabe and gonnabe. Lovely performances and character creation from both of them, and there is – unsurprisingly – a genuine relationship between them. A different kind of idiot, though: quieter, less annoying, just a bit dumb – she’s lost when at the bus stop on the other side of the road from the office. Trouble is, the choice of heirs is Stath, or his sister Sophie (played by his real-life sister, Natasia Demetriou) who is no less of an idiot. It’s King Lear, north-London-style, but with gags. In the office of Michael & Eagle, which may not be a million miles from Haringay thoroughfare Green Lanes, dad Vasos is getting on a bit, wanting to retire to spend more time on the iPad, and needs to pass on the empire. The situation is fresh, at least – not so much the estate agent part of it, and the tosser-typers therein, but north London’s Greek-Cypriot community. What is that cool wind sending a shiver through you suddenly? Is it the “airiness” (Storm Hector, practically) coming under the badly fitted door of the flat Stath is showing you around and wants £1,750 pcm for? Or is it the ghost of David Brent passing, 17 years on?

The loud, UPPER-CASE IMBECILE, lacking in self-awareness, although not entirely unlovable. Always “I’m an idiot”, although he says this without actually saying it, just through everything he does. Sometimes it’s “many happy returns”, not because it’s their birthday, just for a little joke, you know, to break the ice.

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