Icons of my youth are tumbling around me somewhat. These days, when every other person seems to be some sort of celebrity, I’m surprised famous deaths don’t come around more – as of yet, I’m still genuinely shocked.

Patrick Swayze was a bit like Jade Goody – you knew he was ill, technically, but he was a big movie star, those people are always cured. Except he wasn’t, and he died, just like normal people. He might have been a dead president, and a ghost, and even a kiddie-porn-tainted self-help guru, but he bit the big one.

Keith Floyd on the other hand always looked on the edge of collapse, but in the end it wasn’t chronic liver explosion that got him, but cancer again. It brings ones mortality to mind doesn’t it? When an extremely healthy chap like Swayze and an extrememly unhealthy chap like Floyd both go at once, it reminds you that you’re on the spectrum – chances are, you’re somewhere between a wine-swilling chef and a surfer-looking Californian. I am.



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