DOES anybody have a right to tell someone else how they should feel?

The death of David Bowie this week prompted an unprecedented expression of grief on social media.

Thousands attempted to articulate their sadness at the passing of someone they admired. A much smaller number of judgemental people told them they should keep it to themselves.

Among the leading shamers was the Sunday Times critic Camilla Long, who charmingly told Bowie fans to “man the **** up” and added that: “I think grief should be private.”

I’ve always felt a bit of a philistine for not liking Bowie more than I do. I’ve enjoyed and admired the music, but I’ve never connected to it in the way I did to, say, the Beatles, or Bruce Springsteen, or Bob Dylan at his best.

But that’s not the point. For many people, Bowie was hugely important, in the music he made and what he symbolised. And since he was a presence in their lives from their formative years, why shouldn’t they feel bereft?

I found myself sad this week at the death of Ed Stewart, who lived locally, but whom I’d never met. The sorrow was partly because I’ve been in touch with people who did know him and who say what a lovely guy he was. But it was also because he was part of my own childhood.

In the 1970s, ‘Stewpot’ reached an audience of up to 17million with his Junior Choice programme. My brother and I were among that huge audience, switching on the radio as soon as we were up on a weekend morning. Stewpot kept us entertained in the hours between waking and watching the Banana Splits.

I’m only aware of one Bowie record turning up on Junior Choice – and that was The Laughing Gnome. Most of Ed’s choices would have been derided as criminally uncool, but we loved them, and we enjoyed his warm personality.

It was only after Ed Stewart’s death that I learned that Junior Choice had been revived in recent years, as a Christmas Day treat on Radio Two. I suppose I had always been too busy at Christmas to notice. So this week, I played back his final show on BBC iPlayer.

All the favourites were there. My Brother by Terry Scott. Right Said Fred by Bernard Cribbins. Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West) by Benny Hill. White Horses by Jacky. Champion the Wonder Horse by Frankie Laine.

Many of the people writing and emailing with requests said exactly what I would like to have said to Ed Stewart. That he was a big part of their childhood, that they had great memories of those records and wanted to play them to their own children or grandchildren. It was comforting to know that Ed had been told many times how much his shows meant to people.

The last record Stewpot played was one of the very first songs I can ever remember hearing: the Seekers’ version of Morningtown Ride. It’s about a train journey, “rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay.” I associate the song with lying securely in my bed as a child at Turlin Moor, listening to the trains that passed nearby.

I thought it might be unbearably sad to hear Ed sign off for the last time after that. But in fact, it was good to hear him singing along, pledging to see us again and handing over to the news as the song finished. “All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.”

Our connection to the entertainers of our youth can be surprisingly emotional. So if anyone is ever tempted to think that people are making too much of a celebrity's passing – whether it’s David Bowie, Alan Rickman or Stewpot – then they should do the decent thing and keep quiet.

Sadness shouldn’t always be kept private; mean thoughts should.