One of the things that has always made life bearable in Britain is our connection with some of our media heroes.
One might watch the Morecambe and Wise show in the 1970s, and spend the best part of the following day recalling their show with friends and work colleagues.
The rota of star names is endless: many became our friends.
They made us feel good.
A little like recalling Del and Rodney dressed as Batman and Robin emerging from a fog.
Some catchphrases are instantly recognisable without even mentioning any names.
“Did you see so-and-so on the Royal Variety show last night?”
We’d all start emulating some of their distinctive routines, the very performances that would make them household names.
Teenagers in their millions bought the 1960s hit Everybody’s Gone To The Moon by Jonathan King.
Likewise in the 1970s records by Gary Glitter ensured his place as a teenage icon.
It takes great leaps of faith for the public to entrust such moral reliance, even, dare I say, a blind faith, that such people may be nothing more or less than we expect: even hold dear.
After all, they are good people: they must be, they’re on the telly or the radio – surely qualification enough.
Such endorsements by major institutions ensure that these people are way beyond reproach. God forbid.
Well, God had better start forbidding.
The past few weeks have been confusing, distressing, shocking, and hurtful: how far must one go?
How many adjectives can one use when describing the revelations about Jimmy Savile?
I felt betrayed for all of the years that I, like millions of others, held this man in such great esteem.
Jimmy Savile was a uniquely, quintessentially British media star: a man beyond reproach. Sickening.