One of the things that have always made life bearable in Britain is our connection with some of our media hero’s. One might watch the Morecambe and Wise show in the 70’s, and spend the best part of the following day recalling their show, almost verbatim, with friends and work colleagues simply to rekindle collective memories which would be greeted by all with great hilarity. The rota of star names is endless: Mike Yarwood, John Peel….many of these media professionals became our friends, like the genius of Les Dawson. 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: ‘Nice to see you…to see you nice!’ “Did you see Freddie Starr on the Royal Variety show last night?” We’d all start emulating some of his distinctive routines, the very performance that that would make him a household name. Teenagers in their millions bought the sixties hit Everybody’s Gone To The Moon by Jonathon King, likewise in the 70’s records by Gary Glitter ensured his place as a teenage icon. It takes great leaps of faith for a 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 last 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.