Thingummyjig is dead.
Yes, sorry to break it so bluntly.
Remember him crooning that old song?
What was it again?
No, I can't remember now either, but still, eh..?
Those were the days.
Didn't he marry that old slapper; you tell me, what was her name?
Yeah, that's the one.
No, I don't know. Probably cancer. It usually is.
But he did rather live life to the full. Perhaps he just wore out.
Must be right though, I just saw it on Facebook.
Are you sure?
Hang on, give me a minute. I'll Google it.
You're right, you know!
Two years ago according to Wikipedia.
Heart attack in a hotel bedroom following a night of kinky sex with a prostitute dressed as Tinky Winky.
I don't think I've ever watched the Tellytubbies.
I mention this because I have this morning seen this happen. Not the Tinky Winky bit obviously, I made that up.
Although thinking about it...
I forget who it was exactly. And if you think I'm scrolling through all those posts of kittens being cute, children being sick and photoshopped cloud images of angels then please think again.
Obviously not someone as 'big' as Bowie, Prince or any of the rest of the 'A' list crew who have so sadly and publicly popped their clogs recently and had a whole evening of News at Ten devoted to their demise.
Let's say it was Jimmy Ruffin for two reasons. 1 - there is a very nice short story about him on this website, you might enjoy it after you've read this, and 2 - I remember that it did actually happen to the poor old sod.
Yes, poor Jimmy sadly passed away, no doubt mourned by many, only to rise like Lazarus a year or so later to go through the whole process again for the people who had been too busy to notice his passing at the first time of asking.
So, bereft and saddened we share and retweet for all we're worth to our friends. They do the same until it triggers a memory in one bright spark who says, 'hang on a minute, isn't he dead already..!'
Strangely this knowledge of his passing back in the mists of time assuages our mourning instinct and we do feel a great deal better than had we gone through the process when it actually happened.
The pussy was an excuse for madam to do some heavy breathing as she called out the fire brigade. Her pussy was up a tree as it turned out.
Sir's car was recovered after being spotted floating down the canal. Apparently the lad who pinched it was the same bastard who beat the poor dog to death. Fortunately he's now been given a very severe telling off.
But here it is all over again, as fresh and as good as new. And people are sharing and tweeting and bending over backwards to help what has already been accomplished.
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And that's what technology has done for us.
Time used to be linear.
One day followed another.
It loops around on Facebook.
It retweets itself on Twitter.
It replays endlessly on catchup T.V.
No wonder Doctor Who always looked so confused, skipping around in time like that.
Keeping up with who's dead and alive is like trying to remember whether Jon Pertwee or Colin Baker had the assistant with the shortest skirt.