I'm Not Crying For You

Monday morning, and I'm listening to Ken Bruce on the radio. It's the day after the death of Sir Terry Wogan and Ken, in his usual warm manner, is talking about his friend and colleague.

So many well-known people from the past, my past, have now gone within weeks of each other. The year began with Bowie, his enormous fame all but overshadowing the equally sad passing of Ed 'Stewpot' Stewart, who went the next day.

Alan Rickman, that fine actor, joined them last week and another, Frank Finlay, only two days ago.

Of course, there were others. I should mention Lemmy, who rock fans will have mourned in their millions but, to be honest, it wasn't until I saw a photo of him that I was aware who he was and so I was incapable of summoning any emotion at all; sorry to those who would, quite understandably, strongly disagree with me.

People dying shouldn't form the basis for a popularity contest. Because these people were in the public eye, it is only too easy to assume a proprietorial attitude towards them. On the day of Bowie's death, there were reports of people taking days off work amid outpourings of how he had 'been their reason for living', had 'been the greatest influence on their lives', had 'given them everything...'

It all seems more than a little disrespectful to the departed's loved ones, those actually entitled to these sentiments.

Anyone with even a soupcon of cynicism would surely look askance at such affirmations. I'm certainly one of them.

But the recent news coverage brought by some celebrities demise has, I have to admit, effected me more deeply than I would have imagined.

But why should that be? I don't remember being particularly moved by the premature death of Elvis or the callous shooting of Lennon. When Steve McQueen died at only fifty I recall thinking what a bloody shame for he was one of my favourites ever since being taken to see The Magnificent Seven as a treat for my fourth birthday.

The news – and subsequent media coverage and eulogising – of the deaths of Bowie and Wogan, particularly, have brought an unfamiliar lump to my throat and unexpected tear to my eye.

Have I become soft in my old age? Am I being unduly influenced by some mass hysteria?

Perhaps 'old age' is the key. When Presley, Lennon and McQueen died I was twenty and twenty-three, half the age of any of them; the age of fifty sounded too soon for Steve to go, but I still call to mind thinking he'd had a good run, a 'good innings'. When you're twenty-three, fifty is another life away. My own life-memories still were mostly those of a child.

But Bowie and Wogan had been with me all along, a constant backdrop to my own individual highs and lows, my own disappointments, my euphoric small victories, my deep and torturing personal losses; their very existence chaptered my own.

I'm fourteen and can hear my sister playing her David Bowie Hunky Dory LP as she gets ready to go out on a Saturday night; I'm a year older and can hear Ziggy Stardust on the jukebox as I enter a pub for my first illicit drink. I'm thirty, recently married, and driving down the M6 to the strains of Lets Dance on the car's CD player.

I'm there listening to Terry in the kitchen, mum chuckling away as she pours me my pre-school cornflakes; I'm lying in bed with my first love - pitifully few year later - and laughing away at his scathing commentary of the 1977 Eurovision Song Contest. I've turned fifty, married again to my surprise, and watching Terry as he presents the 27th Children in Need night on the telly.

Lumps in my throat, tears in my eyes? I'd like to imagine Terry 'The Togmiester', kind but pragmatic as ever, never an espouser of sickly sentimentalism, turning his amused crinkly eyes to me and saying, 'What's the matter with you, you eejit, we didn't even know each other!'

And I'm sure he, of all people, would understand when I answered:

'No, only half true but, anyway, forgive me, I'm not crying for you.'