You see, his death more-or-less confirms that I will never receive my Stewpot transistor radio I won when I sent a funny poem into Junior Choice.
I didn't even like Junior Choice (for those in the dark, it was a Saturday morning request show on BBC Radio 1 in which all the songs were requested by children), because even at the age of seven I bridled at being forced to listen to Nellie the Elephant when I could have been doing something - anything - more exciting.
But push came to shove, and a teacher suggested that we all enter the Junior Choice Limerick competition, with Stewpot radios for the best ones.
My epic was read out as one of the best ones, but my Stewpot radio never arrived.
I suppose you want to read it. OK, then:
There once was a DJ called Stew
Who couldn't do any kung fu
He couldn't do judo
So he was stuck playing ludo
That poor young DJ called Stew
I'll be the first to admit that the last line needs some work (For example: "And a yobbo beat him to poo" would have suited), but not a bad effort for a seven-year-old swot.
I have never forgotten my Stewpot radio snub, so I spent more than half my life carrying out Plan B: Work at the same BBC office for 27 years and completely forget to bring down the organisation from the inside.
But if anybody's reading this in the loft at Broadcasting House, have a rummage. You might find my Stewpot radio.
(Stewpot's autobiography is said to be right down there as bitter as Don Estelle's classic. I've splurged 1p on it on Amazon and will report back. In the meantime, here's Danny Baker's view.)