Wit and Wisdom, or some other foolish title.

It’s strange. As I write these words to myself, sat here just me and my notebook, people are getting all worked up about Norman Wisdom’s death.

I can’t often work myself up into a lather over a celebrity – the Diana thing perplexed and baffled me, the Queen Mother thing mildly amused me. The Michael Jackson thing – well, that disturbed me.

Can people be that sorry that Norman Wisdom has died? He was suffering from fairly severe dementia and hadn’t been able to recognise himself in his own films for a couple of years now. There was no particular quality of life there at ninety-whatever-it-was. Are people sorry for his passing, or for the passing of him at forty-something, playing an iconic role?

Diana spent the months leading up to her death frolicking on yachts with her playboy man friend, no fairytale weddings. Michael Jackson spent his last days in a state of induced catatonia and frail rehearsal for a comeback that may or may not have worked – certainly no Thrillers. The Queen Mother...well, when were her golden times? Her legendary status was mostly institutional.

I just don’t quite understand this national thing that happens at the moments – are these deaths a reflection of our own lives? Because certainly only a minuscule number of us even meet such people, let alone enjoy them as significant figures in our lives.

The worst thing for me is that as I look on Wikipedia to try and clarify some things about the man I notice that his death has been recorded already. Reacting in a soppy, sentimental way when you hear about the death of a celebrity is one thing, but dashing to the computer and changing their online encyclopaedia entry? That’s a dedication to sustaining the homework of lazy eleven-year-olds beyond my ken.