Metro 197

So another year is over and we’re all one step closer to our inevitable deaths. Happy New Year!

The good news is that we’re through the perineum of 2015, that weird little week between Christmas and New Year where no one quite knows what to do with themselves. I always end up feeling sorry for any celebrities that die in the 52nd week of the year. Because all the mawkish tribute lists detailing those we have lost this annum come out just before Christmas. So if you’re one of the unfortunates who chokes on a dry bit of turkey on Boxing Day, then you never get to be part of the annual photographic parade of the formerly famous stiffs.

To be fair, at the end of each decade they should do a little catch up of all the people who died in the last week of all they previous ten years. But they should do it just before Christmas so that a select group of celebrities end up missing out on both lists. And then maybe at the end of each century they could do a round up of all the celebrities that died on the last week of all the years ending in zero, apart, of course from the celebrities who died in the last week of the century who get their round up at the end of each millennia.

Actor Jason Robards and Polish rapper Magick who both died in the grundle of 2000 will have to wait 1000 years for their picture to be shown whilst some music by Coldplay plays, but the confused people of the future will be forced to finally acknowledge them.

I am going to buck the trend and pay tribute to some of those that we lost in the taint of 2015. Most notably was Motörhead frontman, Lemmy, who got his wish and didn’t live forever. Go to YouTube for his appearance in the Young Ones and when you’ve got over admiring his unique microphone technique, check out the way he looks at us as he delivers that line. He knows that one day you will be watching it after his death and will be chilled and impressed by the direct eye contact.

We also lost science fiction George Clayton Johnson, who I owe a great debt of thanks to, because he wrote Logan’s Run and is thus indirectly responsible for Jenny Agutter swimming naked in that pool in the film. A life well lived. Unlike the people in his book he made it to 86 years of age. It’s one rule for the science fiction authors and quite another for his fictional creations. Hypocrite!

I’d also like to give honourable mentions to Harlem Globetrotter Meadowlark Lemon (remember when the Globetrotters would show up in Scooby Doo? Bizarre) and John Bradbury the drummer of the Specials. They died in the gooch of 2015 but will not be forgotten.

Someone who might be glad not to make the annual role call was  the German man who decided to rob a condom machine on Christmas Day by destroying it with a homemade bomb (perhaps his mates said they were going to blow up some johnnies and he misunderstood). Ironically he failed to protect himself and was tragically and embarrassingly killed in the blast.

God knows what he was thinking. Presumably all the condoms would also have been rendered obsolete by the shrapnel. And how much money would have been in the machine anyway? He had two accomplices so once they’d split the proceeds he might have bagged ten euros.

At least, he’ll definitely win a Darwin Award.



So it’s 2016 and it’s still to be determined whether we’re going to be saying “twenty sixteen” or “two thousand and sixteen”. 2012 was definitely “twenty twelve” but 2015 was equally certainly “two thousand and fifteen”. So which way are we going this time? I am going to wait until I hear someone else say it out loud before I commit. I don’t want to look like an idiot.