KEY POINTS:
It's been a grim holiday season for us columnists. Oh, I went to some nice places - Akaroa, the Waipara Valley, Marlborough Sounds - and did Trojan work at the dining table.
All the while though, hovering overhead like storm clouds above a picnic spot was the gloomy awareness that two of the greatest newsmakers, controversialists, and column-fillers of our time had departed the stage.
I refer of course to Saddam Hussein Abd Al-Majidida al-Tikriti, aka the New Saladin, the Lion of Babylon, the Butcher of Baghdad.
And to Shane Keith Warne, aka the Sultan of Spin, the Sheik of Tweak, the Sofa Cobra from St Kilda.
In the best theatrical tradition they hogged the spotlight right to the very end, making dramatic exits that demonstrated yet again their ability to drive journalists to their keyboards and inspire torrents of effortless prose.
It was wholly consistent with the counter-productive nature of the United States intervention in Iraq that Saddam's execution should have been a cruel shambles which served only to inflame sections of Arab opinion and generate sympathy for one of the most hateful figures in history.
The swift appearance of the hanging footage on the internet caused understandable revulsion but perhaps out of forgetfulness or in the spirit of not speaking ill of the dead however much they deserve it, the chorus of condemnation glossed over Saddam's own penchant for snuff videos.
Many an expatriate Iraqi opponent of his regime was sent a videotape showing the gang rape, torture and eventual murder of family members or friends.
Even in death the perverse illusionist who obstructed UN weapons inspectors because, given a free hand, they would have discovered he had nothing to hide - that the Lion of Babylon was in fact a paper tiger - could cause the West to tie itself in intellectual knots.
How many of those who insist America has no right to impose values such as secular democracy on other cultures didn't hesitate to lecture the Iraqis about the immorality of capital punishment? And wasn't there a faint but unmistakable echo of the censorship debate in the furore over the hanging footage?
As liberals used to tell those who professed to be sickened by pornography: no one's forcing you to watch it.
In his final test Warne played a rollicking innings and captured his thousandth international wicket, but his swansong was never going to be a sedate and gentlemanly affair.
His exchange with umpire Aleem Dar featured all the bravado and crassness that have made him both a cricketing and tabloid legend.
Warne appealed for leg before; Dar turned it down and asked Warne not to follow through in his line of sight because it blocked his view of the batsman.
"You worry about getting it right at the other end, Aleem," snapped Warne, "and don't worry about where my foot's landing."
In terms of hubris this is up there with Marie Antoinette's "Let them eat cake".
Warne was wrong, not to mention out of order, on all three counts: Dar did get it right - the batsman clearly wasn't out; Dar was doing him a favour by pointing out he was blocking his view of the batsman; and Dar was obliged to worry about where Warne's foot was landing, both in relation to a possible no ball and footmarks on the pitch.
A few days into retirement, Warne appeared in one of those set-piece TV interviews which tarnished mega-celebrities like Princess Diana and Michael Jackson used to communicate directly with the faithful.
Quizzed by wrinkly old Michael Parkinson, a jockstrap-sniffer from way back, he elaborated on his sledging of the English player Paul Collingwood.
Collingwood played a blink-and-you-missed-it role in England's 2005 Ashes victory but as happens in team games picked up an MBE with the rest of the squad.
Having taunted Collingwood out in the middle on the theme that he should be embarrassed about his gong and offered to pay for the stamps to send it back, Warne gloatingly shared his put-down with the television audience.
All's fair in love, war and international sport but what happened to the old rule that what takes place on the field, stays on the field? What happened to being gracious in victory?
The last thing Warne needed to prove was he's the very model of a modern celebrity - vain, indiscreet, incapable of shame. This, after all, is the man whose explanation for taking a banned substance was that his mother made him do it.
But he did it anyway, warbling on about his serial adultery ("It shows I'm human." As opposed to what, exactly?), floating the idea of a re-marriage to the long-suffering Simone, then just as casually hinting he has other irons in the fire: "I might like somebody else; I might not be able to commit 100 per cent to her now."
Simone, you have been Warned.
The tyrant is dead but another one will be along soon; that's the sad way of the world. Love him or loathe him - and as is often the case with the most mesmerising stars, we couldn't help but do both, sometimes simultaneously - there is only one Shane Warne.
