It seems to be compulsory for some kind of beloved celebrity to pop his or indeed her clogs during the festive season. This year's victim is one who means rather a lot to me: Elisabeth Beresford, author of the Wombles books.
If you aren't familiar with the Wombles, I pity you. They're rodentlike scavengers who live under Wimbledon Common and other places, and name themselves from an old atlas, hence Great Uncle Bulgaria, Tobermory and Madame Cholet. They live by cunningly recycling humans' castoffs and have hilarious small adventures. It's all very heartwarming but also genuinely intelligent.
Here's a clip from the rather good TV adaptation (narrated by the semi-divine Bernard Cribbins), though I urge you to find the books.
And 'their' terrible Christmas song, for which Mike Batt deserves to burn in hell (as he does for so many other crimes against music, taste, and the proletariat - he also wrote 'Bright Eyes' and is the Conservative Party's official composer):