Sea levels are rising alarmingly, as rivers already swollen with the floods of tears being cried for dead alcoholic Patrick Swayze are now bursting with the additional tears being shed for dead alcoholic Keith Floyd.
Drainage systems have been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of tears being sobbed in a single day by grown women who think everyone on TV is their bestest friend in the whole world ever.
"The floodgates are jammed shut," said an exhausted water manager from the Environment Agency. "The tear pressure should be enough to open the sluices, but they're blocked by all these eyeballs that have been cried out."
"Why do famous peepo orf the telly ever have to die? It's so unfair," wailed Tracy, a middle-aged mother of four who watched Dirty Dancing on average once a week to remind herself of her lost youth. "I reckon God muss juss be reely jealous, like, 'cos 'is borin' crappy films never git shown no more."
Tracy suddenly went white as a sheet, and stammered: "Jer fink one day I might like die meself? If even Patrick Swayze an' 'is pert bum can die, wot fackin' 'ope is there for me? Waaaaaah."
"Fack me, I'm blind," she added, as her eyes popped out under the renewed pressure from her swollen tear ducts.
Whisky distillers in Scotland and wine producers all over the world are also said to be inconsolable over Floyd's death from a heart attack.
As the world's media pundits remind people that bad news always comes in threes, Britain's men are stoically sublimating their grief by taking bets on which inexplicably-adored celeb is going to turn up his toes next, with Noel Edmonds, Graham Norton, Ant and/or Dec and Bruce Forsyth topping the lengthening wish lists.
Bookies' favourite, however, is Whitney Houston - whose return to the limelight in middle age, after years of drink and drug abuse, is almost certain to do for her before she has another chance to inflict her raucous yells on massed crowds of delusional fortysomethings.
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