What will the Togs do?

Sir Terry Wogan was one of those people not just larger than life but almost larger than death - such a warm, comforting presence that you expect him to be around in something like perpetuity.  Rising to prominence before I was born, he was an ever-present for me and so, unlike the Queen say, his death was not foreseen.
Victor Lewis-Smith, ferocious TV critic and columnist for both The Evening Standard and The Mirror, was one who saw Wogan as smug and self-satisfied, epitomised by his toupee which after a manner of speaking was the latter's Achilles' heel and could expose the underlying viciousness.  His bad-temper at the 'political voting' of Eurovision (and subsequent departure as 'British' host) is understandable, even if the song that wins is the one that cuts across such cosy and mutual back-slapping.  Lewis-Smith's was not such a lone voice among the journalistic profession on the bile Woagn would coat in syrup though millions fell for his avuncular charms in which he seemed to be in contented 50s perpetually.  Cancer seems to be the dreaded word among celebrities of continuing import - Bowie, Rickman and now ol' Sir Terry (it seems apposite to use his first name given the way he touched people).
I'm sure he would have devastated to learn that his death was the top news item, pushing the deaths of 45 in Damascus through suicide bombings into second place.  But these Syrians who we never knew did not have such an effect on our national culture.  To borrow a favourite phrase of blood-thirsty dictators, one death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.  To turn it on its head, all life should be cherished and we can cherish Terry, 'Togs' and non-'Togs' alike, in our memories of the imprint he left in our lives.