I recall two intrepid mountaineers, their names lost in time's mists, scaling an uncharted mountain and discovering the remains of a mythical temple. With shaking hands, one of them scraped filth from a plaque containing an inscription.
'Bruce Forsyth is dead,' read the discoverer, in a shaking voice. His companion's eyes widened in awe-then caught something else. Reaching out, the second man scraped dirt from below these words.
'....long in the tooth, not to mention the chin,' he added, completing the inscription with a wry snigger.