It is, on the face of it, a slightly odd sort of crime. Not subtle, not especially discreet, and certainly not small. Costumes belonging to Madonna have been stolen, and not just any costumes, but the sort tied up with entire eras, performances, identities even. Which makes it less like nicking clothes and more like walking off with fragments of pop history.

These are the pieces that once sat under stage lights, absorbed applause, helped construct the whole carefully managed spectacle. Now, apparently, they are elsewhere, in that murky space between private collectors, opportunistic theft, and the slightly surreal economy of celebrity memorabilia. One imagines they do not exactly turn up at the local car boot sale, though stranger things have happened.

There is something revealing in this, though it takes a moment to settle. Fame gives the impression of permanence, of things being fixed and protected simply because they matter. But in practice, it is often rather porous. Objects move, security lapses, people take chances. And suddenly something that felt untouchable is, well, gone.

Of course, the value here is not just material, though that is considerable enough. It is symbolic. These outfits represent moments people remember, performances they think they witnessed even if they only saw them later, through screens, slightly removed, slightly mythologised. Losing them feels disproportionate to the act itself, which is perhaps the point.

Still, there is a faint irony in it all. The machinery of global fame, vast and polished as it is, undone by something as old-fashioned as theft. No grand statement, no deeper philosophy. Just someone picking something up and leaving with it.

It begins, as these things often do, with something that sounds both sensible and faintly unreal. The UK government is pressing ahead with a generational smoking ban, which means that today’s teenagers may simply never be allowed to buy tobacco at all. Not later, not when they turn 18, not even when they are old enough to regret it properly. Just… never. A slow fade-out of smoking, engineered in law rather than left to culture.

On paper, it is rather compelling. Smoking remains one of the leading causes of preventable illness and death across Britain, despite years of public health campaigns, warning labels, and that peculiar mix of shame and stubbornness that has always surrounded cigarettes. So the idea is straightforward enough. If people never start, they never need to stop. Problem quietly solved, or at least greatly reduced.

And yet, there is something slightly odd about watching a habit disappear not because it has been outgrown, but because it has been gently, persistently edged out of legal existence. Not banned outright, which would provoke a row and probably a black market by teatime, but phased away, year by year, until it becomes something other people used to do.

Supporters argue, quite reasonably, that this is a public health victory in the making. Critics wonder, also quite reasonably, where the line sits between guidance and control. It is not a loud argument yet, but you can hear it forming, just under the surface.

Still, one suspects the long-term direction is set. Fewer smokers. Fewer illnesses. Fewer regrets, perhaps. Though human nature being what it is, it will almost certainly find something else instead

Something quietly marvellous has happened. A lost episode of the Morecambe and Wise Show has turned up, not with trumpets exactly, more like a slightly dusty miracle pulled from a cupboard somewhere, and it has done what very few things manage now. It has made people genuinely pleased. Not outraged, not divided, just pleased, which is almost suspicious in itself.

This rediscovered piece of classic British comedy has stirred up a wider conversation about whether we still make things like this, or whether we mostly remember them and sigh. And into that gentle cultural moment steps Arts Council England, now considering increased investment in comedy. Yes, comedy. Funded. Which sounds either like a very good idea or the beginning of something unintentionally hilarious.

The facts are straightforward enough. The episode was long thought lost, another casualty of archival neglect or, perhaps more accurately, the old habit of taping over things that would later turn out to matter rather a lot. Its recovery highlights both the fragility and the stubborn endurance of cultural memory. Meanwhile, Arts Council England already supports aspects of live and written comedy, but there is talk, still forming, of expanding that support in a more deliberate way.

And here is the slightly awkward question sitting underneath it all. Can you fund humour into existence? Or does it slip away the moment it is managed too carefully, like a joke explained twice.