Of course it’s sad when people die, especially for friends and family, but let’s be honest here. A very, very old rich lady none of us knew personally, socially or even vaguely has died.

We’ve been expecting it for years, and for the last couple of decades, every time she got a little sniffle or swallowed a fishbone, we all thought that was it. Quick, time to update the obit, and extra bank holiday ahoy.

As soon as I heard the news, I was reminded of an article which appeared in the Guardian in August last year called “Please God, not on my shift” by ex-BBC Producer Tim Luckhurst. It makes very interesting reading, especially now as we see the media coverage build up around the news of her death.

So what happened? The screen went black in the middle of a programme. I fiddled with the ariel. Nothing happened. The ambient dirge music began. Peter Sissons suddenly appeared on screen looking flustered, and made a short statement approaching grammatical sense. They cancelled Stars in Their Eyes and Blind Date and a nation silently questioned whether we’ll get that long-anticipated national day of mourning after all, or whether they’ll just roll it up into the long weekend. The neverending barrage of tributes and retrospectives began, as behind the scenes a handful of TV schedulers changed their trousers, repeatedly. That’s the Bank Holiday viewing schedule jiggered, then.

So an old lady passed away. Hardly surprising, but there you go. Not even the royals are immortal.

Unless, that is, they’re actually reptilian shape-shifters, as shell-suit loving national bufoon David Icke has long insisted… Well, if that’s the case we’re all in serious trouble, aren’t we?