Alistair Cooke, RIP

ALISTAIR COOKE passed away in Manhattan last week at the age of 136.

He began with the BBC in 1934 as a film critic, and has been a fixture on upscale radio and television ever since, hosting such classy fare as Omnibus and Masterpiece Theater. Most recently (which for Cooke means the last 60 years), he'd been reading his weekly "Letter from America" on the BBC, in which he would decry, in his smug, aristocratic manner, American moral decline.

Every weekend we awoke to the sound of his dry voice coming out of the radio, chiding us like some dusty schoolmarm, letting us know in no uncertain terms that the wealthy (and the British) were better than you and me. He had plenty of anecdotes to prove his point, too, concerning Lord Chauncey Wigginpiffle, Lady Morose Pendington and whatever pithy comments they made in 1924. He could even drop in a line or two from Coriolanus, if need be, just to prove that he could quote from Coriolanus.

We know he was respected. We know he was a legend. We appreciate the fact that he kept it up until a few short weeks before his death. But you know, we always wanted to punch him a good one, the snooty old bastard. We wanted to knock him down, muss his clothes and give him a swift boot in the ribs. Thought he was so damned clever. Good riddance, windbag.