SWINE FLU: THE LATEST DEATH TOLL!!!

SWINE FLU: ARE YOU AT RISK!?!?!?

NATION “WILL GRIND TO A HALT” AS SWINE FLU VIRUS BITES!!!

So squeaked the media, the papers especially, as the “scourge” began to make its presence felt on these shores. And the papers – like the virus itself – show no signs of letting up.

Let’s just look at that top headline. Swine flu is a new strain of influenza, against which we have no natural immunity, having not had it yet. Therefore, it’s possible that every man, woman and child in the UK could contract the virus. That’s 61,000,000 people. Assume a mortality rate of a little over one in 1,000, and you arrive at 65,000 deaths.

Could happen. But never has the phrase “pigs might fly” seemed more appropriate.

As for the country shutting down… Yeah, sure. Assuming we all get piggy flu at exactly the same time.

Which, demonstrably, we haven’t.

Get a grip, people.

* * *

Two Test matches in, and bragging rights, for the moment, are mine. I predicted, before the start of this Ashes series, that England could and would win back the smallest and most significant trophy in cricket, and results so far – a thrilling draw in Cardiff and a thumping victory at Lord’s – suggest my trust might not have been misplaced.

And there will never be a better opportunity. Australia have lost four, if not five, key players since they whitewashed us in 2006/7. England, too, have had to rebuild, but are much further down that road than the Aussies. Our batting is stronger, further down the order, and Andrew Strauss is proving his worth, both as captain and batsman.

And then there is the bowling attack – all pretty decent but, in one player, truly exceptional. In all my years watching cricket, I have never seen a display of sustained aggression such as that produced by Andrew Flintoff at the second Test – the finest spell of pace bowling I think there’s ever been. If Flintoff can will his worn-out body through the next three matches, and produce anything like that kind of form, England can, and should, win the Ashes. Without the Freddie factor, I’m not so sure…

* * *

And so, belatedly, to the passing of Michael Jackson.

People will, I’m sure, remember where they were and what they were doing when they learned of his death. Myself, I remember it most clearly. It was when I saw him perform Earth Song at the Brit awards – so full of hubris, so up his own backside, so clearly, delusionally, convinced he was the new messiah – that’s when Michael Jackson died, for me.

The long aftermath was like watching some increasingly ghastly zombie – animate, but unalive. The dead man who wouldn’t lie down.

Even now, I still wouldn’t be altogether surprised if he put in another appearance.

Think back to the Thriller video. Harmless entertainment – or a portent of what’s to come?

But I think what I love most is its location. Stuck in the middle of a big bump that juts out into the North Sea, Norwich isn’t on the way to anywhere. Well, unless you count Great Yarmouth – and frankly, who wants to?

No, you’ve got to want to come here. Or if (as in my case) it’s your hometown, you’ve got to want to come back. That pretty much everyone I knew growing up in the city left the first chance they got (myself included), and pretty much everyone has returned (some quicker than others), is testament to the city’s enduring allure. As for the incomers – well obviously as with any place, there are those who visit, like what they see and elect to put down roots. But what’s remarkable is the number who only ever intended to make the city their temporary home, but who find life here so agreeable that they never leave. The University of East Anglia, just outside Norwich, is home to some 14,000 students, here on three- or four-year degree courses. You’d expect them to graduate, and leave, wouldn’t you; and I’m sure the bulk of them do just that. But I’m equally sure – though I have no figures to back this up, just my own eyes and ears – that a much higher proportion than normal just, kind-of… stick around. Norwich has a reputation as the graveyard of ambition – but as cemeteries go, it’s a very pleasant place to be.

And, having stuck around, in this convivial backwater, well, you’ve got to make your own entertainment, haven’t you?

Which is what the city’s inhabitants have proved singularly adept at doing.

In the 80s, I was involved in a thing called the Rio Club. It wasn’t my idea, the genius behind it was a late and much-lamented friend of mine; but I was a significant cog in the machine. The idea was simple: set up Brazilian-themed club nights, wherever and whenever we could find a venue offering favourable terms; put the word out; sell as many tickets as possible; and see who turned up.

And turn up they did. As I recall we started out hiring a room (the Manhattan Suite? Central Park? my memory fails me as to the name) at what was then the Samson & Hercules (or maybe Ritzys?), then a big nightclub in the city centre. By the time of the final Rio Club night, we had to rent the scuzzy Gala Ballroom (now a kind of indoor laser shoot-em-up space) just to fit everyone in. I’m tempted to say we must have had over 1,000 in that night, which can’t be right; but certainly, several hundred people turned up, intent on having a brilliant time. And a brilliant time was had.

Mike, myself and others made some serious money out of the Rio Club. But it was never about that, or spotting a gap in the market, or whatever. What it was about was a love of Brazilian music, wanting to dance to it, and hoping that other folk might share our enthusiasm. We did it, initially, on a wing and a prayer; and we did it because we could. And there were others pursuing parallel paths, all around the city.

Fast forward 20-plus years and similar things are happening. Being an old fart now I don’t have my finger on the pulse in the way I used to. But one phenomenon that has made my radar blip is the Bo Nanafana Social Club. I won’t bore you with the details, just Google the name (harrumph! We had to do Rio without the internet). But, while what Bo Nanafana offers is different, the idea behind it is very similar. People with a love of something, who want to bring it to a wider audience, and have the bottle to do just that – with, in Bo Nanafana’s case, spectacular success.

I’m not suggesting that there aren’t people pushing ahead with similar initiatives elsewhere. But I’m sure it’s something that small provincial towns do better than big urban centres.

And Norwich, little old isolated Norwich, does better than most.

Nor, actually, do I really have much of a problem with many of the things being claimed for – swimming pools, moat clearance and the like. Given that becoming an MP is now a career choice rather than a vocation, is it any wonder that the people who do this particular job are just as venal as the rest of us? If I were in a job, and there was a (dodgy) system in place allowing me to claim X, Y and Z, would I do it? Damn right I would.

But, of course, I’m not in work – not like that, anyway. I can claim expenses from myself all I like, but it doesn’t seem to make me any better off.

Having said which, there are five times a year when I can claim a bit back. They are, of course, the quarterly VAT returns and the annual self-assessment income tax return.

And I do. I claim for things like petrol, vehicle depreciation, phone bills, internet services… That kind of thing.

But I don’t sweat the small stuff. I can’t really be bothered. And I have better things to do.

And that’s my real problem with the MPs’ expenses scandal. The big-ticket items I can understand – not approve of, but understand. It’s the little things I object to. A packet of HobNobs. A couple of skin-flicks. A chocolate santa. Cat food. Jellied eels. A KitKat. Shampoo. Tampax (claimed by a male MP, interestingly).

It’s not the inappropriateness of some of these claims that rankles; that charge can just as easily be made against the moat clearance and swimming pool claims – and is, day after day, in newspaper after newspaper.

No, it’s just claiming for KitKats, jellied eels etc seems so petty and small-minded.

An MP who submits a claim for a packet of biscuits clearly has time on his or her hands – time enough, anyway, to go through what must be boxes and boxes of receipts, collected in the course of a year. An MP with time to do that isn’t doing their job properly, so I don’t want them representing me*. An MP who thinks it’s important to claim for a bag of pet food clearly has his or her priorities so far out of whack that I don’t want them representing me*, either.

What I want is an MP who’s… Well, who’s… like me**, basically. Someone who thinks along similar lines, has similar aspirations, similar priorities, similar hopes, similar fears.

Which I guess is what most of us want, really. 

Hmm. You can see how revolutions start, can’t you.

*That’s “me” as in Joe Public, rather than “me” as in Norwich-based private individual.

**That’s “me” as in “me”. Hope that helps!

Curling up with a good book is, to me, one of life’s greatest pleasures. My own writing is nowhere near the standard I’d like it to be, but the process itself I find hugely satisfying.

But I’m beginning to question effectiveness of writing as a form of communication.

The irony is that we’re all, all of us, doing so much more of it. Everyone these days is busy sending emails, texting, blogging (like me), tweeting, MSN-ing… Writing has become democratised.

And debased. There are people – the vast majority of people, actually – stringing words together, who have no business doing so. Poorly constructed sentences, ill-chosen words… Ambiguities abound, leading, sometimes, to huge misunderstandings and fallings-out.

I have, unfortunately, to include myself in this vast majority. The other night I got into a massive argument with a very good friend over something utterly trivial. And why did we argue? Because we were texting each other. Now I pride myself – or I did – on my ability to turn a pithy phrase. And my once-and-(I hope)-future friend is no slouch either. And I refuse to use those stupid text abbreviations. Yet, somehow, we managed to get into a right old ding-dong about, of all things, beavers.

See, there’s an ambiguity (albeit a deliberate one), right there. Did our spat concern large dam-building rodents from North America? Or was our contretemps centred on the early-years Scout group to which our sons both belong? And yes, I’m aware of the third possibility, but let’s not go there.

As it happens, our disagreement concerned the Scout group. I had just attended their AGM, and texted my friend (who hadn’t) to say how grim it had been. He (by text) chided me for going, saying that I only went because it fitted my self-image as the perfect parent. Now, had this been said to my face, or even over the phone, I would have treated it as the joke it most assuredly was. Written down, however, with no nuance, inflection or intonation, the words stung and I reacted angrily. How dare he… blah blah blah. He, in turn, saw red. And so it escalated, till both of us got the hump and switched off.

My friend and I have known each other for years, and have never before had a cross word. It was the limitations of the written word in general, and texting in particular, that got us into this mess. I will call him tonight and sort it out. Or he’ll call me. Whatever – it will be sorted. But I shall limit future texts to arranging meetings, ascertaining my daughter’s whereabouts and sorting out school pick-ups.

So, am I going to give up writing? Not a bit of it. Aside from it being a large chunk of what I do for a living, I love doing it.

But I’m just going to have to do it better.

I observed her closely for telltale signs that pursuing this conversation further might be unwise – a clenching of the jaw, perhaps, a tightening of her grip on the steak-knife – but saw nothing other than a quizzically raised eyebrow. Interpreting this as an invitation to explain, I continued.

“Do you remember when we were younger, and running around town with all our mates? Our friendship group was pretty much 50-50, wasn’t it? I mean, you and I were a couple, but we thought nothing of hanging out without each other, but with our mates, did we? Gender didn’t come into it.”

S didn’t nod her head, but she didn’t shake it either. She clearly wanted to see where this was headed. So, to be honest, did I.

“And that continued when we got older, didn’t it? Even after we got married and everything. I remember you going out with D, staying out till dawn. And I used to go out drinking most nights with J, even when we were expecting. And you were OK with that, right?

“But after C was born, something happened. It’s like we both went to sleep. And I don’t know about you but I’ve just woken up, to find that all my female friends have disappeared. And, in truth, I don’t understand why. It wasn’t marriage – ours or theirs – that caused these friendships to founder. So what was it? Parenthood? General neglect?

“Anyway I’m not happy about it. I mean I like my [male] mates, but I’ve always enjoyed women’s company, the female perspective on things. I’m going to try and revive the friendships that have atrophied. And I’m going to get me some more. I hope you’re OK with that.”

And she is. S and I trust each other implicitly. And we both know that relationships – our relationship, anyway – can’t exist in a vacuum. Some couples live only for each other, but we’ve never been like that.

So, that’s all good then. But I’m still thinking about why those earlier friendships fell by the wayside in the first place. And I think I’ve stumbled on a prosaic, but true, explanation. Nothing to do with inappropriateness, sexual spark, or what-have-you (fill in the blanks if you wish).

It is simply this: children, especially when young, place such demands on your time, energy and money that on the rare occasions when you’ve got enough of all three, an evening out with a mate (of either gender) feels like an evening out wasted. Something has to give, so you stop seeing your mates. Pure and simple. And, since male-male friendships require less maintenance than male-female ones (don’t pretend it’s not true), those are the ones that endure this fallow period, and can thus be renewed with ease once the dust settles, while the male-female friendships wither and die.

But can be rejuvenated, with a little effort. I hope…

So what’s been happening since we last talked?

Well, I had a birthday two days ago. Thanks, you’re too kind. 47, since you ask. For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have!

Actually it was all a bit of a non-event. I’m all for celebrating the landmark birthdays – especially if they fall on a weekend – but turning 47 on a Monday didn’t seem that big a deal. I got some presents, I worked, I had some drinks. Then I had some more drinks. But that was about it. I suppose if one were in particularly maudlin mood one could reflect that over half of one’s life is in all probability behind one, and birthdays by definition highlight that fact. But being possessed of a nature that is idiotically positive and optimistic most of the time, I just stick my fingers in my ears, sing “la-la-la” and refuse to consider it.

What else? Well, Jade Goody died, of course. One person who never had the luxury of reflecting on her own mortality in the way us (make that you) old gals and geezers get to. Not, I think, that Jade spent much time reflecting on anything, even when healthy. Especially when healthy. Not much of a thinker, was she, our Jade? The media, damn their hypocritical eyes, have performed a complete volte face, turning her into a shoo-in candidate for canonisation. Now I love newspapers, and I love the fact that our press is so robust, but honestly the sheer brass neck of some of them, particularly the red-tops, is on occasion absolutely breathtaking – and this is one such example.

Jade wasn’t a saint, any more than she was a demon. She was a gobby, ignorant, working-class girl who was smart enough to know an opportunity when she saw it, and grabbed it with both hands. In her six years of fame/notoriety she made a lot of mistakes, and a lot of money, but really, if you chart the narrative arc of Jade Goody’s life lived in public, as measured in column inches – the ridicule, the vilification, the rehabilitation, the adoration – it says less about her than it does about the papers themselves. Papers whose sales depend on Jade Goody and others like her. I hope she is at peace now, and I hope her sons get to live the life she wanted for them, free from press intrusion. And I hope – I really, really hope – that her car crash of a family don’t come crawling out of whatever gutter they dwell in and contesting the will, or selling their stories, or whatever. She’s dead. End-of.

Now, what else? Regular readers will know my main predilections by now – beer, football and pop music. Well, now you can get involved. Let me explain:

The other night – my birthday night as it happens – I was drunkenly expounding on one of my pet theories; that every band or artist, however terrible, has one great song in them. When challenged on this, I normally go: “The Osmonds. Dreadful band. “Crazy Horses”. Great song.”

And that’s usually enough; they’re usually as drunk as I am. But on Monday it wasn’t enough. On Monday I was challenged repeatedly – and I had no fall-back position. The Bay City Rollers? Nothing. Kenny? I tried with “The Bump” but that got laughed out of court. Middle of the Road? “Soley Soley” was the best I could come up with. Racey? Nada (you’ll observe these are mostly 70s acts).

Thankfully the conversation moved on. But I am uncomfortably aware that my dodgy hypothesis came close to being shot down in flames.

So I need help. Anything you can come up with to bolster my bogus argument. All suggestions gratefully received.

A music lover needs you. Come to my aid.

Come to think of it, wasn’t that a Simply Red tune? Terrible band…

Yesterday events reached some sort of apogee with Goody’s marriage to fiance Jack Tweed. Next up is the christening of her two sons, scheduled for next week. There are also tentative plans for further interviews over the coming weeks, depending on Goody’s health. With one thing and another, Goody looks set to make a cool £1m, which will be put in trust for Bobby and Freddie.

And still the debate rages – alright, chunters – on. Was Goody – is Goody – right to highlight her predicament in this way? A 40% increase in smear tests among 25- to 35-year-old women can only be a good thing; but what of those unfortunates who’ve actually got what Goody’s got, at a less advanced stage? How terrifying must it be for them to watch Goody’s rapid decline and (probably) imminent demise at such close quarters?

There’s also, let’s be honest, a class issue here. Ruth Picardie, John Diamond, Dina Rabinovitch, Miles Kington, Liz Tilberis… all wrote, brilliantly, about the cancers that killed them. But they were educated, middle-class, wordsmiths; Goody is none of those things. She’s a working-class chav from Bermondsey, mixed-race and in-yer-face, and she’s putting herself out there in the only way she knows. There have been tut-tuttings that Goody’s chosen course somehow lacks decorum. Though quite what’s decorous about cancer is, I’ll admit, beyond me. Whatever, Goody has obviously decided, from the off, that she will not go quietly. As for those who think she should, shame on them.

But there’s one other aspect of all this that I hardly dare mention, and that is how she looks. I’m sure Max Clifford vets all the official photos before they’re released to the media, and there may be a bit of retouching going on, who knows, but in some of the shots I’ve seen I think Jade Goody looks simply stunning. I’m no baldy fetishist, but with her fabulous head-shape and mixed-race features – I don’t know quite what adjective best describes her. Exotic? Imperious? Magnificent?

All those. But above all, transfixingly beautiful.

* * *

Writing in yesterday’s Observer newspaper, food critic Jay Rayner bemoaned the resurgence of cheap fast-food. McDonalds, KFC, Domino’s Pizza – all are enjoying surging share prices as the UK turns its back on nutritional values and animal welfare in favour of cheap credit-crunchtastic comfort eating.

He may be right, but if so it has as much to do with ignorance and idleness as lack of funds. Leaving aside the animal welfare debate (and I leave it aside on a daily basis, to be honest), it is always going to be cheaper, and better for you, to prepare food at home, from scratch, using the best ingredients you can afford. That we don’t says far more about our laziness and apathy than about our bank balances.

Then of course it all went distinctly sour. During a run of Celebrity Big Brother, Goody racially insulted gorgeous, pouting Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty.

To say that racism is no longer tolerated in Britain (alright, parts of Britain) is to understate the case. To use racist (or for that matter homophobic) language is to risk social pariah status; and rightly so. Racism is not quite up there with paedophilia on the UK’s top 10 hate list, but it’s not far short. Overnight, Goody went from harmless buffoon to evil monster.

And there she would most probably have remained, had she not been diagnosed with cervical cancer towards the end of last year. Now it has emerged that the cancer has spread, is inoperable and will probably kill her within months, if not weeks.

The tabloids – where hypocrisy and selective amnesia are tools of the trade – have no problem dealing with this. Goody is now “brave Jade”, “battling Jade”, “fearful but fighting Jade”. But the broadsheets, and I suspect their readers, are finding the whole business distinctly discomfiting.

My view is that the media on both sides of the fence have got to be a lot more upfront about what Jade Goody was, and is. She was, and remains, a thick, racist ignoramus (bad) who emerged from a car-crash of an upbringing to achieve a kind of success (good). She has a fatal disease (bad), but is putting all her efforts during the time she has left into earning as much money as she can for her two young children (good).

And she’s doing it the only way she knows – or can imagine; by being famous, and milking her fame for every last penny. That she’s taking money from the same papers that first ridiculed and then vilified her has, I think, a pleasing symmetry to it.

I hope, for the sake of her sons, that she’s exacting a very high price indeed.

* * *

For an intelligent man, I can sometimes be more than a little obtuse.

When I started this thing, I figured it was a case of “think of a subject, put it out there, job done”. If a piece attracted some sort of comment all the better, but it never occurred to me to enter into dialogue with my correspondents. Indeed, it had to be (not very) gently pointed out to me that it is ongoing exchanges of views that makes the best, most vibrant blogs the successes they are. I, with my 20th-century “print” sensibility, had failed to get to grips with the not-so-new medium. Moreover, it was explained, I had been in breach of netiquette. Those few who wrote in had done so in expectation of a reply and perhaps some ongoing discussion – both of which I failed to provide.

My apologies. I won’t be revisiting the oldest submissions, but I promise to do better in future.

“Dear Mr Abramovich

I notice you have a vacancy for a football manager at Chelsea Football Club, and I would like to apply for the post.

While I have no experience of football, or management for that matter, I don’t see why this should automatically disqualify my application. Like Jose, I’m arrogant, and look good in an overcoat; unlike Avram, I’m always cheerful and smiley; I’m a lot cheaper than Big Phil; and English is my first language – invaluable for those post-match interviews.

More importantly, I think I’d bring a breath of fresh air to any Premiership club. And a breath of fresh air is exactly what this jaded, venal Division sorely needs.

I await the favour of your reply.

Yours etc…”

That’s one, here’s the other:

“Dear Mr Gaydamak

The last time I came to Portsmouth, I visited HMS Victory. As I toured Nelson’s famous flagship, Iwill confess I gave little thought to the managership of the town’s illustrious football club. Now, however, I see that visit as nothing less than an augury.

Victory, Mr Gaydamak, is the watchword. And victory can be ours – or yours, anyway – with the right manager.

I am that manager. Lack of knowledge and experience need not be a hindrance, Mr Gaydamak. In fact, in my unconventional approach, disregard for protocol and all-out pursuit of success I would venture to suggest that I bear comparison to the great admiral himself.

So, Mr Gaydamak – be, if you will, my Lady Hamilton. Let us turn a blind eye to the past, and engage in some serious “rompey-Pompey”.

I await the favour of your reply.

Yours etc…”

I notice, en passant, that Alan Curbishley has been linked to both jobs. You have to feel sorry for the luckless ex-West Ham boss. Curbs (as I call him) has been “linked” with just about every managerial job going (including Norwich) – but so far, not a sniff. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. He must be wondering what he did in a previous life to suffer so. Never mind, Alan; tell you what, whichever job I don’t take, you can have, OK? Seems fair enough.

I wasn’t au fait with copyright law, but I’m sure I was in breach of it. Taping one’s own records, for one’s own use, I think was probably OK. Lending/borrowing was a bit more dubious. And copying for other people, or taping other people’s records, was music piracy, plain and simple. But it didn’t feel like that, I suspect largely because the copied version was never quite such good quality as the original. In fact I can remember several times buying an album because I’d had it on tape, loved it, and wanted to hear it in pristine high fidelity – that and pore over the sleeve artwork. Home-produced cassettes, while fine as far as they went, were an inferior product. You knew it, and I suspect the record companies and the Performing Rights Society knew that you knew it, and thus turned a blind eye.

Today, however, all has changed.

The internet has altered the accessibility of music beyond all recognition. My musical taste has always been a bit eclectic, and I can well remember going to every record shop in town in pursuit of some obscure record or other that I just had to have. Not any more – I’ve looked for some very peculiar (as in unique) tunes online, and the worldwide web has yet to fail me.

Then there’s the proliferation of formats. In the 70s, you had a choice between vinyl or pre-recorded cassette. The first commercial CD was launched in the early 80s. Vinyl was an early casualty of the new technology. LPs simply disappeared, though 7″ and 12″ singles proved resilient; the latter are still popular with club DJs. Cassettes suffered a slow decline, finally being declared dead in 2007. But now the CD itself is under threat. MP3s, WMA files, WAVs et al have completely revolutionised the way music is delivered.

That’s if it’s delivered at all. What’s the point in owning a track, or an album, if you can listen to it on demand via the web?

All this has changed the public’s attitude to the product itself. Music, and the music industry, are no longer treated with respect. Gone are the days when you’d save up for an album; when you’d study the liner notes as holy writ; when you’d carefully wipe the record’s surface with a lint-free antistatic cloth; when you’d store the record away from any heat source – and, crucially, upright (why? In case the music fell out of the grooves?). Today, if you hear something you like, you download it. In all probability, for nothing.

And, crucially, you don’t hanker after the “proper” version, because the “proper” version is what you’ve got. Digital music files can be copied as many times as you want, with no loss of sound quality. And packaging, the importance of packaging, disappeared along with the records it enclosed.

This is why the music industry has got its knickers in such a knot. Music can be accessed and copied all too easily with no loss of quality, by a public that has lost any veneration for the product, the industry, or even the artist who produced it. Some companies and performers are changing shape to meet the new paradigm. Others are floundering.

But here’s where I become a contrary old bugger. I was happy enough to copy records as a youth, because I didn’t, and don’t, believe that home taping posed any real threat to the music I loved. David Bowie was never going to say, “Blimey, this home taping malarkey’s really hitting the old pay packet. Sod this for a game of soldiers, I’m going to be a plumber instead.” Led Zeppelin weren’t about to ditch the Starship and fly commercial. Jethro Tull still had one leg to stand on (though Ian Anderson did sort-of give up for a while, to run a fish farm as I recall).

Whereas now, I think the industry is in real crisis. In fact, the reason pop music has become so bland of late is because the record companies can no longer afford to take a punt on unknown or left-field talent. The only thing that sells in any quantity is a demographic-crossing “sure thing” like Alexandra Burke’s woeful “Hallelujah”, not least, I suspect, because many of the people it appeals to don’t know how to do illegal downloads. Yes, there are artists, like Arctic Monkeys, launching themselves on an unsuspecting public; one of the upsides of the internet vis-a-vis music is it’s never been cheaper or easier to get your stuff heard. But the general, industry-wide trend is not encouraging.

Which is why I now insist on paying for my music, downloaded or otherwise. Music is not just a noise, a collection of notes. It appeals to the emotions in a direct and profound way, the world is a better place for having music in it, and the people responsible for making it should be rewarded for their efforts. I yield to no-one in my loathing of Phil Collins, but countless relationships have been forged, marriages consummated, babies conceived and, in all probability, bodies cremated to the strains of “In The Air Tonight”. He deserves to be paid. As for the artists I like, whose work has enriched my life… Paying for their music is my way of saying thankyou. And please make some more.