As a sucker for any melody which relies heavily upon fourth and eighth notes hammered out on a piano, I was always going to fall for Billy Joel’s 1978 hit single ‘My Life’. The lyrics were, as ever with Joel, awful, mixing his cringeworthy ordinary guy New York vernacular schtick with what I dare say he thought were original and profound psychological insights. He is such a hack singer-songwriter. He makes Neil Diamond resemble Wittgenstein. But the tune made me swoon, even its two predictable cod-Beatles middle eights.

What to do? Obviously, I couldn’t buy it. There were four record shops in Middlesbrough back then and I was known in all of them. Known for slouching in looking dissolute and rebellious and buying stuff by Television or Cabaret Voltaire or – look, I’m an intellectual! – Satie or Bruckner. It would be social death to be seen buying ‘My Life’. Luckily, I had a very kindly girlfriend called Sharon who thought my sensibilities were absurd, pretentious and embarrassing, and she marched into HMV and bought the single for me as a present. That’s love for you – she was a Clash fan.

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I lived in a foetid bedsit at the time, in Redcar, in a 1930s block which resembled a crumbling Lubyanka, a high-security prison built by morons. A day or so later one of my neighbours stopped me in the communal hallway. ‘Hey, were you playing that Billy Joel song last night?........

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