“Sorry, can we take that again? And this time, let’s do it with more feeling.”

That’s 2016. Shit, wasn’t it?

If only it was that simple, the great editor in the sky would make it all turn out well.

“Mummy, that scary Trump man won’t kill us all, will he?”

“No, sweet child o’ mine, as long as you’ve got a free thought in your head, he won’t.”

Basically, what we’ve just experienced is a period of time which according to the calendar you follow was approximately 365 days, give or take a sickie you pulled or a lost weekend.

A lot of famous people died, and even more not-famous people too. I mean, a guy down my street died and where were the eulogies? Not even a fucking BBC Four tribute.

So let’s start the new year with my favourite subject: death. Hurrah!

I hate to break it to you, kids, but it’s inevitable. It happens to us all. Yes, even famous people.

Only two things are certain in this crazy, mixed up place we call the world. One is death and the other is that Jeremy Clarkson will punch a peasant, which, since he is rich and famous, is of course his divine right.

The point – ha! – the point of this ramble is our attitude to the death of a famous person. Whilst feeling sad about the death of some truly remarkable people recently – Bowie, Leonard Cohen, Caroline Aherne, Victoria Wood et al – I always feel slightly uncomfortable with any kind of mass hysteria that inevitably ensues.

The work these people have done is always going to be there and easily accessible to all. After a visit from the Grim Reaper their legendary status only continues to grow.

My personal favourite example of this point of view was given by the great Christopher Hitchens following the death of Princess Diana. Check it out if you haven’t already. It’s admittedly an extreme example, but sums it up beautifully.

Oh! There’s been another one. Hitch!

Au Revoir.

Brian Rooney