Now, not much makes us depressed. Apart from quite a lot. Like Jonathan Ross presenting The Baftas (sorry, Orange Baftas).
Like the fact everything has to be fucking sponsored. We took a wet wee only moments ago to the familiar chirrup of a Pentium Processor doing something inside. You should hear what they play when it’s a white wee.
And the fact that Ros is probably going to die in Spooks.
And Ant ‘n’ Dec.
But top of our List du Want to Top Ourselves at the momentary mo is the fact that Wake Up To Wogan, the nation’s favourite breakfast wireless extravaganze, is no more.
For a very long time – longer than this piece of string and even longer than that – Sir Dame Terry Wogan has been serenading us with his mellifluous bons mots and True Eccentricity (TM) and mad as a box of hair tales of times of ye olde and TOG (Terry’s Old Gits/Geezers/Gals)-related madcap-ness and dead nice songs and inspiring us to make smiley faces on windows as the snow falls gently outside. But what the fuck are we going to do now?
Listen to his replacement Chris Evans instead, looks like. And now don’t get us R O N G wrong, Chris Evans off-of used to be married to Carol McGiffin is nice ‘n’ all, but he’s no National Monument, like Tez.
But don’t bring out the razors sponsored by Bic just yet… for as Sir Tez himself said, it’s not goodbye, it’s hors d’oeuvres. For he will be back on our magical mystery radio machines in the New Year, on a new Sunday show that promises to be, well, very similar to his breakfast show only at a completely different time of the day and on Sundays.
*sobs uncontrollably; needs sedation*