IT’S always a treat to get a tantalising glimpse of a rare species in its natural habitat, which is why, this week, TV took us halfway round the globe and across vast oceans, to a far-flung, sun-baked island just to get up-close and personal with a legendary but vulnerable, leather-skinned creature.

I refer not to the Komodo dragons of Stephen Fry’s Last Chance to See (Sunday, BBC2, 8pm) – they’re 10-a-penny down old Indonesia way – but to that altogether more rarefied beast, Sir Cliff Richard, who is, as When Piers Met Sir Cliff (Saturday, ITV1, 9.15pm), an exclusive interview documentary film with Piers Morgan proved, in a bizarre way, every bit as fascinating as the mighty monitors.

Yes, there is only one Cliff (“Amen to that,” some harsher types might say), but there’s certainly a lot of him about at the moment, seeing as he’s celebrating his 50th year in showbusiness.

Cliff’s a bit like Marmite, and it was clear from the start which camp Morgan was in as he put the boot in early doors by announcing to camera that while we are all freezing back here in Britain (which we weren’t on Sunday night as it happens), Cliff Richard is living in the lap of luxury in a palatial pile in Barbados where the temperature is a balmy 32 degrees, thank you very much.

It was done on purpose and as he was ushered through the security gates, he pointed out that no filming had ever, ever been allowed at Cliff’s gaff until now before walking into the breathtaking reception of a luxurious house perched on what has to be one of the most gorgeous spots on earth.

Even I wondered if some of the Christian crooner’s less die-hard fans might just be watching and thinking: “Blimey, no wonder my ticket to his concert at Wembley in a couple of weeks has just set me back £165!”

But then probably not, for Cliffies are among the most loyal fans in the world and if you’re the sort of person who’s willing to queue for days in the rain in your Miss You Nights sleeping bag and Devil Woman scarf for a ticket to see your idol, you’re hardly going to begrudge him a squillion quid and his own palace in paradise.

And anyway, why shouldn’t he have all the trappings of a successful rock star?

The guy’s been churning out pop ditties and Christmas ballads – mainly while wearing ill-advised leather trousers – since the pope was an altar boy, so he’s earned his glass dining table borne by a team of rampant bronze elephants and his peacock rattan chair on the terrace.

I mean, remember Beckingham Palace? Or chez Osborne?

And can you imagine the cribs of the likes of Mariah, Manilow and, er, Bassey?

I admit, I’m not a Cliff fan, though I realise I’m in a minority so it must be me, and I’m sorry, but I cannot collude in the lie that he’s a sex symbol for a single minute, that’s just silly.

But the guy has survived in the business for a long time, because he has a talent that millions of people admire – make that go mad for – so slimy Morgan trying to make him come across as some sort of weirdo by probing him about his sexuality actually made me warm to him a bit more... in fact I felt quite sorry for the man.

He seemed rather lonely, rattling about in his gilded Caribbean cage, especially when asked about all the endless celebrities he must surely have had over for dinner he could only think of Cilla, and, er, Cilla.

Oh, and Michael Flatley and the Blairs had been, but Cliff was away at the time – lucky Cliff.

And though I’m sure, in fact I hope, there was a secret companion hidden away in the spare box room, male or female, who cares, and despite the legions of fans, he still seems so, well, alone.

Though not half as alone as Piers will find himself if he keeps trying to diss our institutions.

Who will the sultan of slime try to shaft next, for goodness sake?

Jimmy Saville?

Well, come to think of it...