and not just Emily

"Good morning, Trevor. You look rather doleful this morning - you're weeping into Oatcake Lake! Also, there's something odd about your face."
"Morning, Norris. Bore da, rather. You see, I've grown a moustache on my face, in a sort of tribute, you know."
"A tribute Trevor? To whom, and why?"
"The illustrator of Dai Station, whose moustache I much admired, and Jones the Steam. The constructor of Professor Yaffle and the Iron Chicken. I'm afraid, little one, that Peter Firmin has whistled the goodbye warble."
"That makes me rather sad, Trevor. Why, it wasn't even ten years ago that Oliver Postgate jumped over the little stream for the last time."
"Indeed, Norris. We wondered at the time what would become of children's programming in his absence. I say wonder, mind, but I felt there was a touch of dread in our outlook."
"It wasn't all bad, Trevor. After all, the Clangers returned with Peter Firmin's involvment, starting with their useful guide to viewing the solar eclipse, with the ever-pleasant Palin narrating. There's the odd little nugget of calmness and kindness here and there, isn't there?"
"The odd little bit, Norris, as you say. Abney and Teal is quite good - a squeaking burrowing turnip beast has far more character than a robot shouting about explosions in a dreadful voice. Hey Duggee has turned up a few quirks of resistance to the miasma of frenetic imbecility threatening to assimilate all."
"Perhaps some of the people who see the new Clangers will find out about the old Clangers? Perhaps they'll find the others?"
"I certainly hope so. It would be terrible if fresh generations grew up unknowing of the comforting yawn of a saggy old cloth cat, or the earnest parp of the bassoon accompanying the cotton-wool steam. With all this modern focus on cheaply-rendered computer graphics accompanied by hyperbolic stereotypical enunciations, there are so few characters any more. Even Aardman's latest film was rather badly-written, relying on the shouting of fleeting pop culture references and garish spectacles instead of decent timeless companiability. I just wish there was something we could do."
"Us, Trevor? The inhabitants of Yoghurt Hill Forest? We have no skills, nor contacts, and barely any resources - this year the grapetree harvest amounted to merely one tiny squashed grapeberry. What can we, just a pair of tiny little earplugs, do, when faced with all this shouting and bellowing?"
"You'd be surprised, Norris. Against shouting? You'd be surprised."