Yesterday . . . all our troubles seemed so so far away. Or did they? It is 25 years since Mark Chapman fired the shots that killed John Lennon and ended an era of protest that had become an uneasy calm. But we have, since then, all been living in a yellow submarine: resurfacing from that chilly December day, the world looks eerily familiar. As with every big event, it is the context that gives it resonance. A glance at our front page a quarter of a century ago provides piquant proof that Einstein’s theory of space-time does indeed curve us back to where we started.

“Borrowing and money supply figures soar” was our lead story — a headline we could recycle today by the substitution of Labour for Tories in “Double blow to Tories’ economic strategy”. Aslef threatened a train strike over British Rail’s financial crisis — a helpful gesture that has just been repeated by Bob Crowe and the RMT union to bring Christmas cheer to the Tube. A footballer, Charlie George, pleaded guilty to “ threatening behaviour” after a scuffle with a photographer (Gazza, please note). The EEC was in deadlock over butter. Butter, budget, what’s the difference? Margaret Thatcher’s uncharacteristic “silence” made the front page, whereas now it is her daughter’s jungle cries of triumph that make headlines. And overseas, “Ugandans hope today’s election will end violence and corruption”. Some hope, the retrospective cynic will say.

Imagine . . . if Lennon had survived. Would he have followed A Spaniard in the Works with A Frenchman in the Ban-loos? Would he and Yoko win a Turner Prize for their week in bed? Would Help! be retitled Counselling? History repeats itself as farce. Let it be.