IF anyone tritely reminds you of how benighted 2016 has been, spare a thought for James McDowall and the family and friends of his wife Oksana.

Just three short years after marrying the woman of his dreams, as the Guardian reported last week, James was left facing the prospect of burying his beloved at the self-same church where he exchanged vows with her, another victim of cancer.

Not sadly an unusual death, however one which will no doubt have a lasting impact on those concerned for some time.

This story came to the fore after reading my evereloquent stable-mate Jeremy Craddock’s column on the sudden death of his mother. It has been a fair while since I’ve lost someone that close but he perfectly encapsulated the searing sense of loss it invokes.

Forgive me then if I fail to shed a tear for the likes of David Gest, Kenny Baker, Pete Burns or Denise Robertson, from This Morning.

Because the hive mind which claims to pass for a collective unconsciousness these days would have you believe that this year has been one beset by trauma and tragedy.

That’s perhaps a trifle unfair – these passings would have provoked similar feelings of bereavement among their nearest and dearest and shouldn’t be dismissed lightly.

And we have undoubtedly bid farewell to some sporting and entertain- ment giants of the modern world over the past 12 months. Muhammad Ali, David Bowie, Johann Cruyff, Victoria Wood.

Admittedly I was never cool enough to fully appreciate the demise of Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah excepted, and while Prince was undeniably funky, more Magill tears were shed over James Brown a few yuletides ago.

Sir Terry Wogan has been eulogised ad nauseam over the BBC but I’ve limited reserves of respect for a chatshow host and radio DJ, however avuncular and charming.

This is a digital age which followed the first mass media age.

You now know far more ‘celebrities’ than countless generations which went before, so ration your anguish maybe?

That’s one of the remaining duties of local newspapers, to record the everyday accounts of those who never aspired to TV or athletic achievement. Like James and Oksana, In this year, or any other.

  • Regular readers would no doubt feel cheated if I failed to become irrationally excited by Light Rail UK’s call for Warrington to consider backing trams as a future means of conveyance.

Or rather a return to a mode of transport not seen on Warrington’s streets since 1935, when the last corporation tramway was wound down.

Once the town was bisected by five main lines, mirroring the principal routes out of the county borough, along Manchester Road, Winwick Road, Knutsford Road, Wilderspool Causeway and Liverpool Road.

Vintage Podium columns have touched upon the merits of adopting a light railway, which could connect with the Metrolink at Altrincham, through Lymm, Grappenhall and Latchford. However in a rare twist your correspondent feels MP David Mowat’s focus on a new rail station for Warrington West may be a more pressing ambition.

  • Favourite headline of the week? Wayne Rooney plays squash in Orford.

A PR coup for LiveWire.

Reminds me of the time when the United star was supposed to be in line to offer a coaching session for the nephew’s junior football side. Under the radar and strictly no publicity.

A gentle reminder, whatever your allegiances that there is always an- other side to our footballing icons, away from the tabloid glare