Dead Famous, Famous Dead

I almost bumped into my latest celebrity crush the other day at Birmingham New Street railway station. I’ll not give the name. Far too embarrassing. But by way of a clue or two it’s a thespian known for radio drama as well as their presence on TV, and in at least two of the roles played the character has a medical degree. . . It’s a thrill to see or meet someone whose work you admire, whether or not they do a similar job to you, or you ‘know’ them only through their on screen, stage, literary (or similar) performance(s). I’m always touched when well-known people speak of being star-struck when encountering or working with their own idols; examples of how we all look to others for inspiration and likely all, however lowly we consider ourselves, provide inspiration to others.

Because stories (of all kinds), music and other creative outputs affect us emotionally as well as cerebrally it’s not surprisingly that when an actor, singer, comedian, writer dies there is a certain amount (related of course to the fame and popularity (or opposite) of the deceased) of public as well as private grief. In recent months there has been a plethora of celebrity deaths with the baby-boomer generation, the rise of ‘celebrity’, and the easier access both to 24/7 news and public mourning, via the internet and social media, all being cited as possible reasons for both the rise of and responses to these events.

In reflecting on my own reactions to recent losses I acknowledge that I have a good deal of sympathy for Ronnie Corbett’s family, agree with others that Prince was taken too soon, feel sadness at the loss of Terry Wogan’s wit and David Bowie’s music and experience significant grief following the deaths of Alan Rickman and Victoria Wood.  Having re-watched the Barchester Chronicles and Robin Hood Prince of Thieves (saving Truly Madly Deeply for when I feel stronger) and gobbled up the television tributes to Ms Wood plus various YouTube versions of sketches she wrote and/or starred in I feel sadder still that there will be no further creations from either of them. Just as sometimes it feels impossible, despite my acceptance of the opposite, that I’ll never, see, touch or talk to my deceased loved ones again, it feels incongruous that Wood won’t write another funny, insightful song or Rickman won’t sneer or smile in that sexy way that no other actor can get close to. And whilst I don’t believe I’m the victim of what some might call pathological fandom I do feel that these individuals, although I never met them, where significant to me. They made me laugh and cry, they entertained me and gave me pause for thought, I respected and took pleasure from their achievements and felt some connection to their humour and politics.

When my husband John died I received a number of letters from people (some of whom I had never met) that, in his job as a lecturer he had supported, influenced, inspired. Similarly following my mum’s death several friends, including several I had not heard from for more than 30 years, spoke or wrote to me about the kindness and humour of my parents, highlighting their positive presence in the lives of young people other than me. Further evidence I guess that of the importance of those of us who live ordinary lives in terms of legacy and impact on the feelings, identities and life choices of others.