GEORGE Michael has gone. And in the year of the final bow from the likes of Bowie and Wogan and Victoria Wood the nation drags its sadness towards the New Year like an ankle weight.
But as more of our showbiz legends shuffle off, a realisation dawns that the loss, perhaps, doesn’t really compare with the departure of those performers who lived closer to home.
Bowie’s best years, for example, were behind him, and his musical memory will live on; we can play his CDs, hear Heroes every time a major games event takes place. Victoria Wood clips will feature for ever in TV compilation programmes. Wogan won’t ever be let go, thanks to tributes to broadcasting greats. And we’ll never stop being reminded of how Ali was the greatest, and a tremendous spokesman for racial equality.
Leonard Cohen simply can’t be forgotten, given the legacy of his songwriting skills and his poetry. And the likes of Andrew Sachs, Caroline Aherne, Greg Lake and Jimmy Young will always be referenced in media retrospectives.
Yet, if we can compare the impact of loss, and surely we are allowed to measure the emotional content of our sadness, the year’s Grim Reaper toll only prompts the mind to recall the Scots stars who made our lives happier.
Such as Gerard Kelly. We are now in panto season, which serves as a reminder we can no longer see Kelly in panto. There is also the personal dimension. Kelly was a delight to meet; each time his voice taking on a Shakespearean lilt with a grand ‘How are you, dear boy?’ But that apart, this time of year only reminds of the legions of kids (of all ages) whose mouths formed giant smiles when he bounced on stage and yelled ‘Hiya, pals!’
Yes, we do miss our national institutions such as Liz Smith, but they were always remote. It’s far easier to feel the loss of a Jack Milroy, a very nice man who had time for everybody. It’s also easy to miss his Francie and Josie partner Rikki Fulton, who was less nice than Jack, yet provided New Year comedy that generations of families could enjoy.
Of the year’s tragic list, little Ronnie Corbett stands tall in the sadness stakes. Sure, Victoria Wood seemed nice and vulnerable but she was Lancastrian in her sensibilities and her act. Corbett’s comedy was informed by his Scottishness, the dark Presbyterianism of his youth the wings he was determined to emerge from.
It was sad of course to hear of the death of Robert Vaughn, but it had been a long time since he was a Man From Uncle, and you realised his loss was more about your own sense of childhood.
And while we can grieve for newspaper writer AA Gill (Sundays will never be the same, wallowing in his cleverness or how daringly vituperative he could be) but what would we give to have Chic Murray around, or an Ian Bannen or a Lex McLean or a Duncan Macrae.
Loss is all the greater when there’s connective tissue. That’s why the passing of Scots actor Freddie Boardley is a choker. He was a talent and a character. People such as Kelly and Boardley are us. As great a talent as he had, George wasn’t.
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