The phrase ‘You’ll always remember where you were when ?’ has become a bit of a cliché, but only because it is so true.

The latest example of this modern phenomenon is, of course, the death of the pop legend Michael Jackson. Such is the testament to his fame and the effect of his untimely death across the generations that my son, who is 12, was woken up at 5am by a text message from his second cousin in California, who, along with most of the rest of the world, felt compelled to spread the tragic tidings.

He then proceeded to storm my bedroom and vigorously shake me awake, which wasn’t easy as I had only stopped watching the news about Michael Jackson’s death one hour earlier at 4am and was in the deepest stages of REM sleep, dreaming, you guessed it, about the untimely death of Michael Jackson ?

By 9am I had spoken to or heard from everyone in my family as my phone rang and texts flooded in thick and fast from all corners of the UK.

The only person in the family circle who was not unduly affected by the news was my dad, who, when I told him that Michael Jackson had died, replied: “Oh I am sorry to hear that, love. Was he a friend of yours?”

So, yes, I guess this is indeed destined to become one of a handful of earth-shattering events that eclipse all others.

We all have them stored away somewhere in our minds, to be unlocked again, but only rarely and in the event of another one happening and shaking up our memories ?

One perfect case in point was the death of another global pop star of similar, if not greater stature.

Elvis Presley is now seen by popular culture as a figure of fun, whom people mimic at tacky talent shows, or dress like at fancy dress parties complete with black quiff toupee, stick-on side-burns and satin jumpsuit replete with whopper-collar, flares and a comedy cape.

But in those days it was no such thing. Michael Jackson was still a fledgling star while Elvis was the undisputed King and as such was utterly revered — if not worshipped — by his subjects.

The day Elvis finally left the building was August 16, 1977, and my family and I were staying at a holiday camp in Cornwall at the time. I was 13 and, along with three of my sisters and a couple of local children, we had invented a lucrative and very fun game called ‘Gate Duty’.

Quite simply, we controlled the gate to the holiday camp, which had to be kept closed to stop cows and sheep from wandering into the park from the surrounding open countryside.

For 10p we would open it for each passing car and then, for another 10p, we would close it behind them. If they paid both at once, we gave them an all-in flat-fee of 18p but, as no one could ever be bothered to hoke around for change, they invariably gave us 20p and laughed at our cheek and resourcefulness as they paid up.

Then, at lunchtime, which was our busiest shift, my portable transistor radio broke the unthinkable news: “Elvis, The King is dead”.

As a result, we made a killing (if you’ll pardon the expression) that day.

Ten pence to open the gate, 10p to shut it and, for an extra 10p, we’ll give you an astonishing newsflash: “This just in: Elvis Presley is dead. Yes, dead. Seriously. Apparently he choked on a hamburger. On the toilet. I know ... imagine eating on the toilet ... And he was only 42 ? I agree ? it’s terrible isn’t it ...?

“And that’ll be 30p please. Have a nice day.”