Those Who Knew Them: Evel Knievel 1938 - 2007

As A Dodo pays tribute to America's greatest motorcycling daredevil, Evel Knievel, with this moving obituary by his long-time friend and personal physician, Marty "Memphis" Stopholes III, MD.

I first met Evel back in the late 40s. He'd fallen off his bike while trying to pull a wheelie outside the drugstore in Butte, MT. Trying to impress a young lady, he told me as I patched up a shattered collar-bone, fixed his broken shoulder and set both his smashed arms and rebuilt his left leg. Whether he impressed her or not I can't say but something about that kid's self-belief sure as hell impressed me. I knew he was destined to go somewheres ... and that by the time he got there he'd surely be in need of urgent medical attention.

Through those early years that boy tried everything from ice hockey to athletics (and he would have broken the world pole vault record too, if he hadn't knocked himself unconscious on the pole on the way up and missed the landing mat on the way down) but it was when he took up with the motorbikes that he found his true calling ... and I found my medical practice flourishing like it never had done before.

Back then we didn't have time to sit back and take things easy, no sir! No sooner had I patched Evel up than he was back out on the road again getting smashed up real bad for real good money. This was the 60s, and while John F Kennedy had said America would put a man on the moon by the end of the decade, Evel was already reaching for the stars ... generally after losing his grip on the handlebars and zooming up, up and away from his bike. Evel knew my services wasn't cheap, but he knew they was the best, and that I'd always fix him up so he could get back out on the road - inside an ambulance, mostly.

Still, the public loved him and he loved the public - particularly the ladies - and why not? He was young, handsome and damn, was that boy smart! He may have been smacked in his head more times than George W was dropped on his by his pappy, but Evel sure made some great decisions. And he was always one step ahead of me - even when he was on crutches or in traction. I no sooner had to mention that folks might like to see him leaping a dozen buses on his motorcycle, than he would be revving up trying to leap 13 buses. Sure he often fell flat on his face - or his coccyx, or his ulna, or both as he went coccyx over ulna straight into the side of a bus or a bridge - but he went straight into the hearts and minds of his fans around the world at the same time.

I think it was during one lengthy stay in my hospital that he hatched his most audacious stunt. Waking from his coma he turned to me and whispered those three immortal words, "Snake River Canyon" ... which had coincidentally featured on the tape loop I'd left playing under his pillow. Well, he seemed so set on the darn thing I just had to put him in touch with some old NASA buddies of mine who eagerly agreed to build him a skycycle that would propel him over a mile across the canyon and into the record books.

Well, as you all know, things didn't go quite to plan. We'll never now how it was that that parachute of his deployed early, sending him plummeting to the canyon floor below ... as my lawyers have made clear to a number of journalists investigating me. Somehow (and despite the allegations that someone had sawn through his safety harness with a medical scalpel) he escaped with only minor injuries. Still, despite the lack of a severe maiming, that leap made him the biggest star stunt riding has ever known. Next thing you knew they was churning out Evel Knievel dolls, games, autographed bandages and personalised stunt-crutches that would make my boy one of the richest men on two wheels, even if those wheels was on the side of his chair.

Now I know that many folks say "Sure, Evel was a fine man, but did we really have to encourage the youth of America to put their life on the line trying to be like him?" Luckily, I didn't have much time to dwell on that kind of talk, mainly 'cause my hospital was soon brim-full of kids suffering from broken ribs, arms, legs, backs, necks... but all of them speeded toward that long ramp to recovery by the knowledge they was just a few beds away from their hero.

Sadly, time took its toll. Even Evel had to throttle back eventually. Why, only a few years ago he even rejected my scheme for him to leap into an electric saw and acid bath factory on a jet-propelled Zimmer frame. I tell you, the world of thrills will never be the same ... and nor will the world of emergency medicine. Still, if all goes to plan, I know the next time I see Evel he'll be lying in his stars-and-go-faster-stripes coffin waiting to make the greatest leap of them all ... as his rocket-powered coffin shoots up the ramp and soars over 24 hearses - most likely clipping the roof of the 25th, bouncing over the open grave and accelerating up and up and up into the wide, blue yonder.

Shoot, I just know he'd want me to release it on DVD for all his loyal fans, just as sure as I know he's up there listening. I know he can hear me. And if he's fallen just short of Heaven and smashed into those Pearly Gates breaking every damn bone in his stubborn ghostly body - I'll soon be there to fix him up. Just like the old days.

Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle c.1955-2007

Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle has thrown its last TV through a closed hotel room window and retired to the big mansion in the sky with the news that these days the addictive lines of choice of legendary hellraiser and gravel-voiced blonde chaser, Rod Stewart, are 00 gauge and have model trains running across them, as revealed on the front cover of this month's Railway Modeller.

Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle was born under a bad sign in the mid-50s - the noisy, attention-seeking child of Rhythm and Blues and Elvis's unruly pelvis. Within weeks of its birth it was scandalising parents and politicians on both sides of the Atlantic through the onstage and off antics of Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Buddy Holly in the USA and Cliff Richard in the UK⁽¹⁾.

Though Beethoven may have pounded in frustration at his piano and Mozart died young, it wasn't until the birth of Rock 'n' Roll itself that Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle first reared its ugly head and vomited copiously out of a 17th-storey window onto a family of Pittsburgh Episcopalians breakfasting by the pool below.

Not content with pushing the envelope of popular music, by the mid-60s, rock stars were also pushing the envelope of pills, powders and halllucinogenic tinctures across the table towards each other. Indeed, the Beatles sampled so much LSD that Ringo Starr actually believed he was the drummer in the Beatles, while the Grateful Dead went so far out they still think Jerry Garcia is soloing 12 years after his death.

This grand social experiment in getting high, getting laid, driving a paisley Bentley into a swimming pool⁽²⁾ and then trying to remember how to play G-C-D was not without its costs: Brian Jones, Keith Moon, Jimi Hendrix, John Bonham, Janis Joplin, Mama Cass and Jim Morrison - to name but a few - all succumbed to the Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle.

In the 70s and 80s musicians continued to test the boundaries of moral acceptability in bacchanalian orgies of drugs and destruction or, in the case of Bananarama, to test the boundaries of musical taste⁽³⁾.

But as the years passed ageing rockers, suddenly ambitious to get old before they die rather than the other way round, began to swap groupies for trophy wives and a life of raising hell to a life of raising trout. When that great rock survivor Keith Richards seriously injured himself - not by accidentally injecting Cillit Bang diesel into his veins or erroneously snorting a line of Sanatogen - but by falling off the ladder in his library, the writing was on the wall ... if he could still remember how to write and still remember where he'd left that wall⁽⁴⁾. If Keef could mash himself up badly while peering over his half-moon specs and reaching for the latest Barbara Cartland, then what future for Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle?

With the revelation that Rod Stewart was giving away his latest album exclusively in Railway Modeller, the last eardrums have been perforated, the last amplifiers blown and the house lights brought cruelly up as Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle choked to death on it's own 1:87 scale replica of a young girl waving excitedly at a passing locomotive.

Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle will be buried at the St Animal Church of the Submerged Muppet. The service will be conducted by the surviving members of Led Zeppelin and the congregation will sing Shine On You Crazy Diamond - if they can remember what comes after "three" as they count in the band...

Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle is survived by Coldplay, James Blunt and Katie Melua.

⁽¹⁾ Not to mention skiffle legend Lonnie Donnegan, who in one notorious incident slightly grated a backstage manager with his washboard for serving the wrong kind of dandelion and burdock.
⁽²⁾ Such was Keith Moon's passion for this aspect of The Lifestyle that his local public baths were forced to ban the submerging of any motor vehicles during the Mothers and Toddlers Swimming Class.
⁽³⁾ and, in the case of Duran Duran, testing both of the aforementioned categories simultaneously.
⁽⁴⁾ probably at the bottom of his swimming pool...

Those Who Knew Them: Miss Moneypenny

Bond lit his first cigarette, one of the Balkan and Turkish "Morlands' Specials" they blended for him in Grosvenor Street. There were three gold bands on the filter, signifying his rank of Commander. They were the only gold bands Bond wanted in his life. He raised the long white tube to his lips. He had no need for women. They were for recreation. Bond needed action and he needed it with men. With a woman there was too much emotion, fogging everything with love and hurt feelings. If Bond had to have anyone under him he wanted it to be a man. He wanted someone as hard and strong as he was. And yet ...

He sipped at his coffee - strong, black, the way he liked it - as he looked out across the plage towards the little boats that bobbed in the sea. He thought about her. Moneypenny. She was different to all the rest. He could rely on her.

They had been together for more than 23 years. Bond still held a precise mental picture of her appearance when they first met. Her hair was a rich chestnut, artfully cut and set to frame her elegant face down to her firm, slightly mannish jaw. She had a good, strong nose. Her eyes gazed back at him amusedly from beneath her carefully arched eyebrows. Her lipstick was rose, picking out lips that indicated to Bond a pleasing mixture of sense and sensuality. Around her neck was a teal scarf, tucked into a sleeveless shift in Navy blue, which showed off her long and well-formed arms to good advantage. Her voice was deep and rich, with a Canadian twang that sat uneasily for an ostensibly English civil servant, just as the strong Scots accent and shlight shpeech impediment Bond affected in their early years together had gibed with his Eton and Fettes background.

Bond had little use for reflection - it was a womanly way to pass the time - but he thought back now to the years they had spent together. He knew he had changed a lot. He had put on weight and lost hair. He had been an Australian male model, a saturnine Welsh Mancunian, a suave Irishman and for several years he had been little more than a quizzically raised eyebrow on a wide-lapelled safari suit, but throughout it all Moneypenny had remained unchanged and unchanging. Wherever he had been, whoever he had been and with whomever he had been, Moneypenny had always been ready to greet him with a warm smile, a clever remark and a fond sigh. Bond knew he had used her badly, as he used all women badly. He could only hope that she forgave him.

Moneypenny was dead. Bond pushed away his breakfast plate of three scrambled eggs and bacon uneaten. As he lifted his cigarette to his lips once more his thumb grazed his cheek, discovering an unexpected wetness. He looked down. The copy of The Times that had brought him news of her death showed the damp evidence of many tears. Bond shook himself, leapt from his chair and reached for his holster. It was time to shoot someone.

The As A Dodo Editors add: Lois Maxwell, born 14 February 1927, best known among her many other roles on stage and screen for playing Miss Moneypenny in 14 James Bond movies, died on 29 September 2007. She will be remembered fondly by anyone who ever thrilled to the sound of the Dr No theme or whose heart ever leapt at the words "James Bond will return".

Tory London Mayoral Hope 2000-2007

Tory London Mayoral Hope, the oft-thwarted Conservative wish to exercise control over the nation's capital, has expired unfulfilled with the news that journalist, MP and all-star celebrity foot-in-mouth champion Boris Johnson has been chosen to contest next year's London Mayoral elections.

Tory Mayoral Hope, born at the turn of the new century to anxious parents desperate for a healthy new child that would restore a crumb of their former glory, were raised as Steven Norris, the Barry White of the Conservative Party, went toe-to-toe with Labour's own Mayoral Hope, part-time Santa Claus impersonator, Frank Dobson for the shiny new position of Mayor of London.

Yet both hopes were to be dashed as they came up against London's ex-ruler, former Leader of the GLC and part-time herpetologist, Ken Livingstone. Though he had long wandered in the wilderness, writing restaurant columns for the London Evening Standard, after being expelled from the Labour Party he had now returned to claim what he saw as his birthright - the Overlordship of London. With the government's attempts to portray him as an evil newt-stroking villain, lodged in a secret bunker deep beneath County Hall succeeding in making him the most popular martyr in London since Wat Tyler, his victory was assured. As the votes were counted it soon became apparent that Dobson would have to return to his workshop at the North Pole and Norris's plans to emulate the late, great Whittington by "putting the Dick back into London" had detumesced along with Tory Mayoral Hope.

Meanwhile, safely installed in his giant newt-shaped offices on the South Bank, "Red" Ken quickly established himself as a man of the people - unless those people were reporters for the Evening Standard, people with an aversion to falling downstairs at parties, or drivers who wanted to drive through the centre of the city. All the while Tory Mayoral Hope lay dormant waiting for the next election when it would have a chance to field a new candidate against the mighty Ken.

But once again, in 2004, Hope was dashed as Jeffrey Archer was stabbed in the (very moley) back by a pesky perjury case. Reluctantly the Conservatives turned to Steven Norris to (quite literally) woo voters away from Ken. But Labour, increasingly brazen about choosing power over principles, brought Livingstone back into the bosom of the party and Norris (quite literally) limped away, defeated.

The failure of Tory Mayoral Hope left Ken free to implement his masterplan for London, which he continued to remodel in his image, culminating in his most audacious move - a plan to replace London's beloved red Routemaster buses with "the much more modern and efficient" bendy-buses: long and articulated, crawling through the city's bus lanes like... DUN-DUN-DA!!! ...giant red newts...

Despite the chaos and traffic jams caused by these monstrous reptiles, Tory Hope still foundered until new head boy, David Cameron took control of the party and launched a series of wizard wheezes to halt Ken's dastardly plan to turn London into a giant salamander. But his plan to poach former Director General of the BBC, Greg Dyke (after Greg had been grilled, stuffed and roasted by Alastair Campbell) as a Tory London Mayoral Hope backfired, as did his plans to champion Lord Coe, Lord Stevens and shock-jock Nick Ferrari - all of whom politely declined the offer of being the next big Tory Mayoral Hope as they were... erm... washing their hair that year.

And so it was that faced with the prospect of Steven Norris trolling round London kissing babes-in-(his)-arms, Cameron threw the nominations open to all - provided they were willing to fill up party coffers by making their vote via a premium rate phone-line⁽¹⁾. As seven million Londoners rushed to their phones to smash them against the wall in horror, 20,000 nominated Winston Churchill, the Easter Bunny and that really fit bird off that programme... you know the one... while 15,000 of them took leave of their senses and were seduced (possibly quite literally) by the banish bendy-buses banter of Tory Clown Prince, Boris Johnson. Boris immediately declared that "King Newt is dead" before accidentally sleeping with a woman who wasn't his wife, falling off his bicycle and choking on his own foot whilst presenting Have I Got News For You. And with that, Tory Mayoral Hope passed away.

Tory London Mayoral Hope will be buried in the 'king Boris Johnson Church of the Apology to Liverpool. The service will be conducted by Steven Norris (a lay minister) and the congregation will sing hymn 357, XTC's The Mayor of Simpleton.

⁽¹⁾ thus becoming the first Conservative leader to put in place a (literal) poll tax before even becoming Prime Minister.

Those Who Knew Them: Luciano Pavarotti 1935-2007

A tribute to the late, great, tenor by one of those who knew and loved him best, restaurateur Luigi Stereotipo- Nazionalo.

Che posso dire? The maestro is no more. I cry, I tear my clothes. Caro amico mio, I miss you. Luciano, I know you since you are little boy here in Modena. Always you love three things: the music, the football, the food ... but not necessarily in that order. I remember when you are nine or ten you want to be great footballer. I see you play as keeper. You are so good - the quick hands, the great football brain and - of course - the fact you take up quite a lot of the goal.

But is the singing that take you. Always you listen to you papa's records - Gigli, Schipa, Caruso - all the greats. I see you covered in flour from papa's work in the bakery, listening to Giovanni Martinelli record with a faraway look in you eye ... and the remains of a basket of focaccia in you hand. Then there is time you get up in my little ristorante and climb on the table and sing you heart out. Is bring tears to my eyes even now ... and not because you break my table. It is because you have the great voice.

You study, you work hard and that voice he take you everywhere. You sing at La Scala, you sing in London, you sing in Australia, you sing in New York. They say you reach nine high C's when you sing at The Met. They make you take 17 curtain calls -it even make you give up you after-performance, pre-meal-snack nibble. Such dedication.

Ah, you voice. I can hear it now. So flowing, so beautiful. Always I remember the words you say to me when you come into the restaurant, "Luigi - I have the calamari , the caponata, the fritatta, the prosciutto, the alici, the bruschetta, the gamberi, the bresaola, the pepperoni, the carciofi, the melanzane, the funghi, the lampascioni ... and once I've finished the starters come back to me and talk about the mains".

You were the greatest star. You bring music to millions. When you sing Nessun Dorma at the World Cup you make everyone cry (especially Domingo and Carreras when they realise how much better you sing it than them). The whole stadium it fill with tears and for once is not because Gazza is there.

Ah Luciano, I know you have you problems. I know you have little difficulty with you tax. I know they say you no act. I know they say is wrong to sing with popstars. But I know you have great appetite for life, for music (and, si, for food) and I know you have voice of gold. Arrivederci Luciano.

Paris Hilton’s Dreadful Incarceration 3rd June 2007-7th June 2007: A Correction

Further to today's obituary for Paris Hilton's Dreadful Incarceration, we now understand that the aforementioned article was a pile of utter garbage a trifle premature, having been informed by Los Angeles Court officials that, on seeing the Incarceration collapse and Ms Hilton appear to get off scot-free, the presiding judge immediately applied his knowledge of CPRR⁽¹⁾ and successfully resuscitated the highly-talented hotel heiress's sentence of imprisonment - producing cries of amazement from onlookers and of "It's not right!" from the heiress herself⁽²⁾.

As usual we apologies profusely for this latest in our long line of obituarial cock-ups. We would promise to do better in future but for our understandable fear that none of our readers would believe us.

⁽¹⁾ Correct Punishment for Rich Recidivists
⁽²⁾ some present insist that Ms Hilton's cry was merely an attempt to remember the proper term for "left".

Paris Hilton’s Dreadful Incarceration 3rd June 2007-7th June 2007

Paris Hilton’s Dreadful Incarceration has died cruelly in its infancy after only three days – although her lawyers argued it was five – following the release of the world’s greatest hotel heiress and sex tape celebrity on unspecified medical grounds, rumoured to be Vacant Personality Syndrome.

The heir to a share of the Hilton Hotel fortune - alongside her siblings London Hilton, Tokyo Hilton and New York Hilton – Paris Hilton has for years led an existence troubled only by the threat to the Hilton fortune from long-lost cousin, Wolverhampton Travelodge. Yet, despite being born into a life of untold wealth and privilege, Paris has become one of this century’s creative artists.

As one of the foremost actresses of her generation she starred in the horror film House of Wax – a terrifying tale of a bikini-line treatment gone wrong – and has made four series of a groundbreaking neuroscience documentary filmed inside her own brain, The Simple Life. Doubtless inspired by the brilliant work of flagrant self-promoters controversial artists such as Jeff Koons, Paris went on to explore the world of the photographic arts, first coming to the art world's attention with her in-depth and probing video installation 1 Night in Paris and later stunning the cognoscenti with her series of Getting Out of the Car triptychs, featuring the shaven pudenda of herself and fellow artists Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears. As well as her achievements in the visual media, Paris was also to prove herself in the world of music, becoming one of the most startling interpreters of popular song since Hylda Baker and Arthur Mullard with her eponymous album, Paris⁽¹⁾ featuring such timeless hits as Turn It Up (No, God No, Please No, Don’t!), Nothing in This World (Except $50 Million in the Bank) and Stars are Blind-Drunk and Behind the Wheel.

All these great works were put under threat in September 2006, when the brilliant heiress was arrested for driving under the influence of too much money and over-exposure on TV, the internet and the press and sentenced to 36 months' probation and had her licence suspended. Understandably unaware that the law could ever apply to one of such enormous global stature (and significantly more enormous wealth), and - as she was later to tell the court - incapable of performing such humdrum tasks as reading her own mail, who could blame her for popping out in her car almost immediately after her sentence and blasting through a 35mph zone at 70mph with all the grace of Mr Toad of Toad Hall in pursuit a canary-coloured cart.

Despite her obvious innocence of the charges brought against her due to her total lack of mens rea⁽²⁾ (having little or no mens at all) and pleas from her friends and relatives to the Governor of California himself, Mr Arnold Terminator, the uncaring authorities decided to break the Hilton butterfly upon their legalistic wheel. Careless of Paris's impassioned courtroom plea that one of her ability should not be forced to spend time with the little people, she was sentenced to 30 days in Los Angeles County Jail. So it was that this brilliant young lady was banged up in front of the watching cameras (in truth, not the first time this had occurred) and Paris Hilton’s Dreadful Incarceration was born.

After just three days and nights, the butterfly was truly broken: Paris had developed a serious medical condition known to laymen as "being a rich white woman in a US jail". Deeply concerned at this, a sympathetic sheriff's office swiftly acted to free her from her plight, choosing to let her serve the rest of her sentence under house arrest wearing an electronic tag - just as soon as they could get Prada to make one for her. So Paris Hilton's Dreadful Incarceration was brought to an end.

Paris Hilton’s Dreadful Incarceration will be buried in a lavish ceremony attended by a weeping Statue of Justice. It is survived by yet more front-page coverage for Ms Hilton and thousands of poor and unconnected people serving out their sentences in the normal manner.

⁽¹⁾ A title Paris arrived at after having the meaning of "eponymous" explained to her no less than 17 times.
⁽²⁾ "Guilty mind".

Those Who Knew Them: John Inman 1935-2007

In the latest in our series of tributes to those who have passed away by those who knew them best, we at As A Dodo hand over our columns - barely pausing for the requisite juvenile snigger as we do so - to one of Mr Inman's frequent pantomime co-stars, Dick Whittington's cat.

When they told me that John Inman was dead I'm afraid my instant reaction was a full-throated "Oh no he isn't". For, however well he was known for his light-footed work as the eternally "free" and extraordinarily camp Mr Humphries in "Are You Being Served?", John's true place was undoubtedly on stage and costumed (in one of the incredible creations he himself put together) as a pantomime dame.

John having starred in more than 40 pantomimes during his life I'm sure many of your readers will have had the chance to witness his genius at work on stage. I certainly know many whose life was forever altered by a sight of his extraordinary Twankey. Indeed his very first role saw him unleashing it on the Blackpool stage when he was just 14 years old.

From then on, John and panto were inseparable. I had the privilege of appearing with him many times in Dick Whittington and - having been caught in the rain before one performance - can honestly say that his Sarah the Cook took the best possible care of her soaking pussy, outdoing even Are You Being Served's Mrs Slocombe. Whether the script required Sarah to polish up the Lord Mayor's baubles or sort out King Rat's ballcock, John always rose to the occasion with alacrity. I would that we had been able to work together more often but sadly on his last outing as Sarah I was on another stage, giving my all to the Student Prince.

Whatever anyone may think of the role of Mr Humphries, as a dame John was one of the true greats, a walking encyclopaedia of panto lore. If only, like Peter Pan's Tinkerbell, we could wish him back to life. For now though, I must leave his memory and your readers: this little pussy's got 12 miles to London and there's still no sign of Dick.

Britney Spears's Hair 1981-2007

Britney Spears's Hair died this weekend after it was forcibly removed from its life support system in a Los Angeles tattoo parlour. It had been unwell for some time as a result of obsessive interest in its every move, flick, wave and tint from people around the world who deemed knowledge of the Hair more important than an understanding of history, science, politics or even themselves.

Britney Spears's Hair was born in 1981 to Britney Spears herself and led a normal and unremarkable life - barring a childish experimentation with Mickey Mouse ears - until 1998 when it found itself propelled against its will into the paparazzi flashlights following the success of Britney's debut album ...Baby One More Time.

Almost overnight the Hair became the most-photographed celebrity in the world, replacing Princess Diana's cleavage and Tony Blair's cheekily self-satisfied grin as the holy grail of snapshots.

Where once the Hair had been able to spend its days sensibly brushed and parted or even matted and hidden under a hat if it so wished, now the hair faced a daily barrage of media speculation about its next reinvention and endless questions about everything from its favourite conditioner to its thoughts on the Middle East peace process.

Despite its astonishing financial success the Hair's behaviour became increasingly erratic as it was hounded from nightclub to wedding chapel to divorce court. In a desperate bid to return to a more simple style, the Hair checked itself into rehab for a quick rinse and blow-dry but checked itself out before completing the treatment, resulting in a tonsorial disaster that pushed the war in Iraq off the front pages.

The damage had been done, and Britney Spears filed for divorce from the Hair citing irreconcilable artistic differences, although she was present as the two parted company and the Hair was finally allowed to rest in peace, beneath the barber's chair, before being swept away for the final time.

Britney Spears's Hair will be buried at the St Samson Church of Non-Denominational Celebrity Hair, Hollywood, in a private service attended by friends, family, minders, paparazzi and hundreds of thousands of distraught fans before the Hair is exhumed by bald acolytes and sold on eBay.

Britney Spears's Hair was predeceased by Ted Danson's thatch and Demi Moore's locks. It is survived by tabloid editors tearing their hair out as they while away the time until they can print the next Britney upskirt crotch shot without more than the usual amount of hypocrisy.

Celebrity Big Brother 2001-2007

Celebrity Big Brother's place in the nation's affections died this week, live on national television, following a massive public protest against the bullying of Bollywood superstar Shilpa Shetty by the trio of luminaries that is Jade Goody (reality TV show loser), Danielle Lloyd (second string glamour model and footballer's girlfriend) and Jo O’Meara (dog breeder and former S CLub 7 member).

Born in 2001, Celebrity Big Brother was the fruit of an unholy attempt to meddle with nature by knitting together the lowest forms of reality TV - together with a collection of talentless Z-listers, has-beens and sociopaths ... and Jack Dee - to create a monster capable of milking credulous couch potatoes entertaining the British public.

Over the next seven years, Celebrity Big Brother was to corral a series of increasingly-desperate and publicity-hungry non-entities in its televisual zoo in a horrendous spectacle not seen since the closure of the public gallery of Bedlam. So-called celebrities such as Les Dennis, Germaine Greer, Michael Barrymore and George Galloway eagerly debased themselves on national television in a desperate bid to boost their public appeal. Sadly for anyone with faith in the British public, the plan succeeded.

It was with this year’s crop of intellectual heavyweights and entertainment superstars that the programme reached an all-time low as producers signed up Jade Goody: a woman whose fame is based on the solid foundation of not knowing the location of “East Angular”, national guilt brought on by a campaign of tabloid villification and the failure to win a past series of Big Brother. Faced with the psychological torture of being placed in close proximity to a woman from another country with a posh-sounding accent and a greater chance of stringing two words together without either involving an Anglo-Saxon monosyllable than her own, Ms Goody, along with acolytes Ms Lloyd and Ms O'Meara, was understandably left with no choice but to resort to a campaign of petty-minded and foul mouthed-abuse unworthy of a playground spat.

The ailing programme's demise came with the decision of sponsor Carphone Warehouse to withdraw Channel 4’s vital supply of sponsorship cash after a suggestion that the company change it's name to Freakshow Warehouse failed to win favour.

News of the programme's demise was greeted with enormous sadness by those lined up to take part in the next programme, believed to include Jim Davidson, Bernard Manning and Adolf Hitler. Celebrity Big Brother is survived by Channel 4's premium rate eviction line, Endemol’s enormous bank balance and the worst period in Anglo-Indian relations since the Raj.

David Beckham's Spanish Career 2003-2007

Footballers will today sign a series of vastly over-remunerative sponsorship deals in memory of the Spanish Career of former England soccer captain David Robert Joseph Beckham, which has finally passed away after months of illness, bravely borne.

David Beckham's Spanish Football Career was born in 2003 to a barrowload of money from Real Madrid and a blazing row with Sir Alex Ferguson. Within seconds of its birth it was hailed as a "galactico", a Spanish term that translates into English as "overpaid, big name footballer who will fail to assist Real's quest for a major trophy" - a role which David was to fulfil perfectly during the three-and-a-half years of his Spanish Career's life. From the outset he threw himself into his new life: despite many struggles and missteps he eventually came to grips with a complex language and, having finally mastered sufficient English to conduct an interview without need to resort to signs, even went on to learn some simple Spanish words, including the phrases, "How much will you pay me to do that?", "Where is the mobile of Rebecca Loos?" and "No, my wife's breasts are all her own, honest, the strange ridge at the top is due to a complex genetic condition".

While matters off the field were going well, with regular appearances in celebrity gossip magazines and tabloids encouraging regular transfusions of cash from major sponsors, matters on the pitch fared rather worse. Soon, the Spanish Career was showing signs of illness, with the young star who had burst onto the scene from the wing soon showing signs of fizzling out - like so many overswerved free kicks - meaninglessly in the middle of the pitch. It was not long before the Career was not even fit enough to make its regular cameo appearances from the bench and was instead transferred to the reserves where its final, sad moments could be kept from the media.

Despite such treatment, Beckham himself managed to keep his spirits to the last, even managing to joke with reporters gathered around the Spanish Career's deathbed that its end had nothing to do with Los Angeles Galaxy's £125 million offer and was "all about the kids". It was as the chorus of raucous laughter this quip engendered died down that the Spanish Career breathed its last.

A moving ceremony will be held for David Beckham's Spanish Football Career this summer, during which a series of removal men will transfer a vast number of overpriced clothing and gold-plated furniture from Spain to Los Angeles. It will be attended by all Victoria and David Beckham's new Hollywood friends, just as soon as they can buy some. The Spanish Career was predeceased by David Beckham's England Career. It is survived by Hello magazine.

Those Who Knew Them: Magnus Magnusson 1929-2007

For the latest in our series of personal tributes from those closest to the recently deceased, we at As A Dodo are honoured to have been granted an audience by one of Magnus Magnusson's most famous co-workers, the Mastermind Chair.

I doubt there can be anyone in Britain over the age of 20 for whom the death of Magnus Magnusson will not cause a moment's pause as they ponder the passing away of a significant period in their past. As host of Mastermind - a programme in which I am proud to have played a significant, though non-speaking, role for 25 years - his was one of the faces that stared out from the screen at a whole nation. He was a significant star in the televisual firmament at a time when all of us would gather before it to gaze at its wonder. As host of Mastermind throughout the seventies and eighties he belonged to that curious pantheon of on-screen figures - Morecambe and Wise, Tom Baker as Doctor Who, The Two Ronnies, Jack Warner's George Dixon, newsreader Kenneth Baker - who were worshipped by families sitting on their sofas on dark winter evenings, tucking into tea and biscuits as they bathed in the glow from the cathode-ray tube. Such was his fame that he was even to stand alongside Harold Wilson, Frank Spencer and assorted members of the cast of Coronation Street as one of the people 1970s comedians really couldn't do an impression of.

What was he like? Ask any of the Mastermind contestants and they will tell you he was charming, courteous, humorous, kind. It was a side, I regret to say, I was not to see myself until our joint retirement from the programme in 1997. Before that I could only sit opposite him - usually more than a little encumbered by the bottom of some obsessive tax-office worker, local council accountant or other person with too much time on their hands and too few social skills in their personality - and watch his magnificent performance as the programme's quiz master. Introduced by the lumbering, threatening tones of "Approaching Menace", Magnus asked his questions in a manner more usually associated with Laurence Olivier plunging a dentist's drill into Dustin Hoffman's premolars. As inquisitor he was dour, unsmiling, intolerant of error and more than a little surly, somehow succeeding in giving the impression of being beyond such petty human concepts as pity or mercy. Not only did this brilliant charade help to give the programme its bite and attract an audience of up to 22 million, it was also to prove the inspiration for Gordon Brown's on-screen appearances.

It was as the programme came to a (thankfully temporary) end on terrestrial television in 1997 that I was finally united with the man I had for so long admired from a distance, when he freed me from my BBC shackles and allowed me to join him in Scotland. Over the years I have been sat on by many rears, the rears of winners and losers, brewing technology supervisors and polytechnic lecturers, barristers and bus conductors, but out of all of them there has only been one set of buttocks by which it has been a pleasure to have been graced.

Those Who Knew Them: Joseph Barbera 1911-2006

All at As A Dodo are delighted to inform readers that the following piece was penned bysomeone who was not only a close friend of the late Joseph Barbera but also an undoubted Hollywood legend, Mr Thomas Cat. We would also like to make clear that the fact that the reporter we sent to Sunset Boulevard to conduct the interview with Mr Cat (on which this piece is based) was last seen lying face down in Mr Cat's pool with a bullet through him should in no way detract from the great star's words ... which have in any event been taken down and may be used in evidence.

Joe Barbera?! Now there was a director! Of course, I had no doubt about his talent from the moment I met him ... and he certainly had no doubts about mine! He spotted me in 1940 working in an off-Broadway production of The Cat and The Canary and he knew right from the moment I fell off stage into the orchestra pit and had my head repeatedly smashed flat between the percussionist's cymbals, before being sliced into a hundred pieces by the wires of the piano that I had that certain je ne sais quoi that those without my command of French might term "star quality".

Soon Joe and that truly marvellous man Bill Hannah were whisking me off to Hollywood for my first starring role in Puss Gets the Boot. Oh Joe and Bill were great on that movie and so was I. We deserved that Academy Award nomination ... in fact we should have got the whole damned Oscar. I still can't believe those little, little men at the Academy could give it to that nauseating The Milky Way. I remember Bugs, Elmer and I commiserating in a bar afterwards. Of course Jer was there already.

Jer, Jer, Jer ... what to say about Jerry Mouse? Joe and Bill insisted we work together and, I have to admit, his rough charm did somehow work up there on the silver screen. But then there were the constant attempts to upstage the leading man (whom I am to humble to name), not to mention the offstage rows, the revolving door through which his wives processed and, most of all, the drinking. I know Joe in particular often despaired of my on-screen sidekick's behaviour. Lucky for Jer, Joe had the patience of a saint. I remember once he had Jer drop an anvil on me nearly a thousand times just to get the right effect (he'd obviously been impressed by my own perfectionism after I corrected his use of the word "whom" for the third time that day).

Yes, thanks to Joe and Bill (not to mention a certain feline gentleman) "Tom and Jerry" (note the order of the billing) were to dominate those silver screens for decades - 7 Academy Awards, 6 Nominations! How many of today's so-called stars can match that? And the dedication! Over 150 movies! Not that the powers-that-be were grateful. Of course it all got too much for Joe and Bill. The constant pressure to produce yet another work of genius always takes its toll. At least neither of them went Jer's way, hanging around in bars, trying to impress ever-younger women with his "mouse in a martini glass" routine. In fact, I always thought it was the anxiety over that incident with Jerry and that young girl (did he really think she looked seventeen?) that sent them off to that sad little world they call TV. What they did there I have no idea ... although I do remember being forced to stand next to a boorish "gentleman" in a ludicrously bourgeois smilodon-fur outfit at one of their parties - honestly! An hour and half of listening to some delusional talking about his "alien friend" The Great Gazoo(!). Sad that a man like Joe should be forced to work with such people.

Still, Joe was one of the Hollywood greats, back when they truly were greats. I'm more than happy to raise a glass to his memory, or perhaps even drop a 10-ton weight on Jer's grave in memory of old times. Adieu mon cher Joe, adieu!

London's Glittering West End 1663-2006

Doctors at St Larry's Hospital have confirmed that London's Glittering West End, known to friends as Theatreland, passed away this evening after being cruelly choked to death by a surfeit of film-to-stage transfers, musicals based on the back catalogues of 1970s pop groups and Andrew Lloyd-Webber.

Born in the aftermath of the Restoration to a fun-loving King Charles II, several playwrights and a large number of extremely willing actresses, London's Glittering West End soon developed into the theatrical centre of Britain ... as well as the scene of many encounters between the aforementioned fun-loving king and willing actresses.

Over the coming years Theatreland was to play host to a varied and astounding range of work from playwrights including Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen, Moliere, Pinter, Priestley and Beckett, and performances from such notables as Nell Gwynn, David Garrick, Sarah Bernhardt, Henry Irving, Laurence Olivier, Judi Dench, Peter O'Toole and several productions of Sir John Gielgud's Hamlet in local lavatory cubicles.

Despite its success, the years did not weigh easily on the West End. As time passed it began to suffer the inevitable ailments of age, its heart increasingly affected by fatty deposits of musical theatre. By the 1990s friends began to note that Theatreland's ability to keep up with current events was failing. Increasingly a shadow of its former self, London's Glittering West End became content to sit back and rock gently to the unthreatening strains of 1970's pop groups such as ABBA and Queen and ever more reliant on a diet of pre-digested Lion Kings, Producers and other film-to-stage transfers. Unable even to feed itself properly, it was eventually found choking on a mashed-up production of Dirty Dancing.

The funeral of London's Glittering West End will be attended by Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Ben Elton and several coach parties of confused pensioners under the impression they are at a performance of Les Miserables. Presiding vicar Cameron Mackintosh has confirmed that the ceremony will be in the best possible taste, the coffin being slowly lowered into its grave accompanied by a roller-skating tap routine and Michael Ball's rendition of Boney M's Ra-Ra-Rasputin. The final burial of the West End will take place on Friday, although doctors expect it to be revived in about 20 years time in a wave of ridiculous nostalgia for the noughties.

London's Glittering West End is survived by Andrew Lloyd-Webber, The Musical! (Book by Ben Elton, lyrics by Tim Rice and music by Puccini).

Bono's Integrity 1960-2006

Bono’s Integrity passed away this week, after an almost 50-year battle with the lead singer of U2. It collapsed and passed away as it was trying to retrieve its Stetson through the courts in Dublin. After forming a close relationship with the singer during the Rattle and Hum tour, the Stetson had tired of Bono’s attempts to mix politics with Christian Rock, and decided to go solo.

Early problems with Bono’s Integrity sadly went unnoticed when, during the 1970s, the teenage singer got his famous nickname from a hearing aid shop in Dublin.

During much of the 80s, Bono’s Integrity persuaded the singer to sport a mullet but, despite the best efforts of doctors, Bono’s Integrity continued to deteriorate as, in the 90s, it began to hobnob with politicians, businessmen and Sting.

Earlier this year, doctors became concerned when Bono’s Integrity participated in a buyout of Forbes magazine – the favourite top-shelf publication of the ultra rich.

Careering out of control, it refused all offers of medical attention, going on to accuse the Irish government of failing to do enough for African debt relief – before moving U2 Ltd to a tax shelter in Holland.

Bono’s Integrity was buried in a private ceremony sponsored by MTV and Apple Computers. Members of the Rock Aristocracy including George Bush, Paul Wolfowitz, Rupert Murdoch and Nana Mouskouri sang some of U2’s classic hits including “Money” by Pink Floyd, “Money, Money, Money” by Abba and Pride (In the Name of Money) by U2.

Bono’s Integrity is survived by his Bono’s Ego and Bono Talking Through His Hat.

Jeremy Clarkson 1960-2006

It is difficult to relay the impact that the sudden and unexpected death of journalist, broadcaster, motoring expert and professional loud-mouthed know-it-all Jeremy Clarkson will have upon the world.

Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson was born in 1960 to a long line of Yorkshiremen and exhibited the virtues of his home county, namely forthrightness and plain-speaking (or "being loud" and "being rude" as they are known outside Yorkshire). He learnt the craft that was to bring him fame as a child when - allowed into the pub to collect the crisps and coca-cola he would be imbibing in the family car while his parents chatted with friends in the snug - he spotted his first pub know-it-all, holding forth at length on why Richard Nixon would beat Leonid Brezhnev in a fight and how all Italians smelled suspiciously of garlic. As he watched the frankly terrified expressions on the faces of the know-it-all's audience, Clarkson knew he had found his ideal job.

After spending many a night hunched under his bedcovers with the Big Boy's Book of Facts and The Hitler Youth Guide To Everything (not to mention several mysteriously soiled copies of Health and Efficiency) young Jeremy was ready to find the perfect tool to display his burgeoning skills. After realising that the perfect tool was himself, he went on to search for the arena in which to express his art and was soon to find himself among the tedious, mileage-and-torque-obsessed men of motoring journalism. With his ability to deliver outrageous and ill-thought-through opinions by means of heavily-prepared and overwrought metaphors, Clarkson soon found himself promoted to television where he became a hugely successful presenter of the BBC's Top Gear programme and a hugely less successful presenter of the chatshow "Clarkson".

Friends believe Mr Clarkson was deeply affected by his friend and co-presenter Richard Hammond's recent, appalling, high-speed accident and - unable to cope with being second best in any area - was driven to outdo Mr Hammond's near-death experience by going "just that little bit further". This, at least, is the only reasonable explanation anyone can come up with for his decision - aided only by a BBC camera crew, a large collection of over-extended similes and extensive gurning to camera - to break into Her Majesty's Naval Base Clyde, Faslane and smuggle himself aboard nuclear submarine HMS Vanguard. Once inside the sub, Mr Clarkson strapped himself to a Trident nuclear missile and - having acquired the launch codes from a senior Naval official after reducing him to a quivering wreck with a three-hour tirade on the obnoxiousness of the French - launched himself at the nearest Greenpeace headquarters with a cry of "Eat atomic death, treehugggers" and a few pithy remarks about the lack of leather or walnut trim on the latest Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles. As a result of his actions, it is understood several of Mr Clarkson's remaining atoms now hold the British water, air and land speed records.

Jeremy Clarkson is survived by a long-suffering family and a note reading "In your face, Hammond".

Paul Burrell's Link To Reality 1958-2006

Doctors at the St Diana Hospital for the Self-Deluded have confirmed that former Royal Butler Paul Burrell's Last Link To Reality passed away this week. Although reports from the hospital remain unclear it appears that The Link - which had been in poor health for many years - entered a coma early on Sunday after a brief, seventeen-hour, chat with Mr Burrell himself about the former butler's deep and abiding love for Diana, Princess of Wales and how much he meant to her.

The product of a childhood in a coal-mining village in the North of England, The Link spent much of its troubled life in Mr Burrell's company. When he first joined the Royal staff, The Link decided to go with him, taking it upon itself to listen to young Paul's tales of Royal goings-on while quietly reminding him of his position - at that time Third Under-Footstool-In-Waiting.

The relationship between the pair became more difficult in 1987, when Mr Burrell was appointed butler to the Prince and Princess of Wales. With Mr Burrell spending much of his time in the glare of the media spotlight (even if only at the very edge of that glare and usually concealed beneath the princess's shopping), The Link found itself seeing less and less of its old friend. Things worsened still following the Royal divorce when - apparently prompted by an offhand remark from Diana - Mr Burrell spent several months believing he was a rock.

Following Diana's death, The Link's attempts to see Mr Burrell became ever more infrequent. Soon it became content to sit at home, watching its old friend as he chose to maintain a quiet and dignified silence by selling his story to the world and eating kangaroo testicles on ITV 'reality' programme "I'm A Nonentity - Get Me Out of Here".

Soon The Link's health began to fail, even as Mr Burrell was finding a new role for himself as keeper of a private museum containing a surprisingly large assortment of Diana's property and as defender of the princess's reputation against all those who might wish to do her wrong, such as her own children.

The Link is survived by the only person on this Earth who ever really knew and understood Diana.

Brief Lives: P Diddy 1992-2006

In another of our occasional series, we at As A Dodo bring you "Brief Lives" - short obituaries by our staff writers. Our first Brief Life follows the sad death of the P Diddy monicker ...

The music world is once more mourning the death of a major rap star. P Diddy has been killed following a dispute with major gangland figure K "Tattifilarious" Dodd over the right to use the "Diddy" name.

Police remain unclear over the precise sequence of events but it is understood Mr Combs was leaving the Grape and Firkin in Knotty Ash, Liverpool after enjoying a pint of IPA and a plate of scouse with friends, when he was attacked in a drive-by tickle-sticking. The assailants have not been positively identified but local rumour points to the involvement of Dodd's enforcers The Diddymen. The vicious gang - whose members include Mick the Marmalizer, Nigel Ponsonby Smallpiece, Wee Hamish McDiddy, Harry Cott and the notorious Dickie Mint - is wanted along with Dodd for a series of crimes during the 60's and 70's including arson at the Jam Butty Mines, a suspicious drowning at the Treacle Works and the 1965 number 1 single "Tears".

P Diddy is survived by Sean "Puffy" Combs. Mr Combs is currently being sued over the "Puffy" nickname by John Prescott.

Boris Johnson's Mouth 1964-2006

Tory frontbench spokesman Boris Johnson's Mouth has passed away during the night, mere hours after being shot off by Mr Johnson himself.

Boris Johnson's Mouth was born in 1964, to a long line of Mouths. Educated at Eton and Oxford, and well-versed in the language of Ancient Greece, Rome and Billy Bunter, the Mouth had all the qualifications necessary to make it a senior body part at both the influential right-leaning Daily Telegraph newspaper and the influential right-leaning Spectator magazine. Its progress was swift, soon becoming Telegraph leader writer, a task made all the more difficult by having to grasp its pen between its teeth. Just one year after Mr Johnson's marriage to Marina Wheeler in 1993, it became Mouth to The Spectator editor, in which role it divided its time between conducting editorial meetings and whispering sweet nothings into Petronella Wyatt's Ear.

Beyond journalism, Boris Johnson's Mouth began to make a name for itself in comedy, appearing on satirical panel shows such as The News Quiz and Have I Got News For You, as well as in the long running Whitehall farce "The Conservative Party", in which it was to take a leading role in 2004 as Parliamentary Mouth to the Shadow Minister for Arts. Regretfully, the Mouth was already becoming increasingly eccentric and unreliable and, in October 2004, Mr Johnson is believed to have shot it off for the first time, making characteristically ill-judged reference to the Hillsborough disaster and claiming that Liverpudlians were mawkish. Despite doing dreadful penance by making a speaking tour of Liverpool, worse was to come only days later when Mr Johnson shot off his Mouth again, after it declared that claims it was having an affair with Petronella Wyatt's Ear were "an inverted pyramid of piffle" a declaration that led to the ground opening beneath it and attempting to swallow it up, while Mr Johnson's pants burst into spontaneous flame. Its reputation in tatters, the Mouth was dismissed from its role, only returning to the Conservative front benches in 2006 as part of new Tory leader David Cameron's assemblage of thrusting and radical Old Etonians.

Tired, weary and mentally unbalanced, Mr Johnson shot off his Mouth for the final time this week, accusing Papua New Guineans of being cannibals. Friends and journalists, hoping for one last misstatement from The Mouth, were gathered at its bedside as it uttered its final words which were "yoiks", or possibly "yarroo". It is to be buried next Saturday, alongside Gogol's Nose and Kafka's Dick.

Those Who Knew Them: Steve Irwin 1962-2006

Welcome to the first in an occasional series, in which we at As A Dodo throw our columns open to the family, friends and acquaintances of the recently deceased. For the first in the series, we approached someone who worked for many years with the famous Australian naturalist Steve Irwin, his old sparring partner Mr Bruce Crocodile.

'Jeez mate, Steve Irwin, what can you say? I know a lot of people across the whole ruddy world are gonna miss old Stevie. A lot of people. Not quite so many animals mind you. Take me for instance, there I was one arvo lying around in a creek up near Kookamularatawatimadingo waiting for a couple of tourists to decide to have a skinny dip (I hate to get sidetracked, but I love it when that happens: "I say, Davina, have you seen this funny log? - It looks just like a crocodile", "Yes it does, doesn't it Anthony? Anthony? I say Anthony, where are you?", "Awwwlllfggfggsgdfgs get it off me, oh Christ get it off my rawlf arrgle, crunch" - it's great, mate, and tasty too). Anyway, there I was in the creek minding my own bizzo, next thing you know there's some sunbleached ocker with a noose around my gob, pointing me at a ruddy camera and telling everyone about my mating habits. I ask you, how would he have liked it if I'd done that to him? Not that I reckon he got round to doing much mating himself - not with shorts that tight.

Fair do's, I admit I had a bit of a grudge against old Steve from that day on. Especially when he upped and stuck me in his ruddy zoo. He looked after us pretty well though. Sure there was always the risk he'd try and stick a finger up your freckle to make you smile for the camera, but the accomodation was pretty decent and the tucker was ace. Once he even offered me his baby. Fair play to him: he might have spent the last ten years giving me the raw prawn but serving up your firstborn as a mid-morning belt-loosener makes up for most things in my book. The bugger of it was the press was there, so he had to take the little ankle biter away before I even got a taste.

Anyway, Steve Irwin. Decent bloke. And anyone who denies it doesn't know Christmas from Bourke Street. At least he got off his fat date and did something with his life - even if that something was buggering around with animals who just wanted a quiet life and the odd pommie tourist to snack on. Go on, raise a tinny to him. And if you're ever down here in Oz, come over to the zoo and look me up, I won't bite ... honest.'