In Central London, the provisional wing of the Friends of Dorothy and the usual coven of madwomen took to the streets in a vomit-inducing display of sentimentality and exhibitionism.

Given that they couldn't afford to fly out to California to flaunt their compassion, they manufactured their own Glastonbury of Grief in the West End.

Half of them didn't even know the words. Bobby Jean, you're not my mum!

Seized with the spirit of Lady Di, Old Compton Street clones and bovine birds with pierced navels in Matalan crop tops united in the hedonistic pursuit of vicarious grief.

If ever a crowd needed 'kettling' this was it. I'd have even turned a blind eye to a baton charge and the judicious application of a water cannon.