Me, The Moon and Helium 3

The Moon is back! And it's bigger than ever. Not literally of course. It actually never went away and it's still exactly the same size (although I can't scientifically prove that). I'm talking in fashion terms of course and let me tell you, the Moon is going to be SO this millennium!

Back in the old days we all loved the moon. The Blue Moon, the Paper Moon and the cheesy one. We danced and snogged under The Moon of Love. We loved the Moon so much we even gave it a personality - and a face. Sometimes he wore a night cap and winked at us. He snoozed and snored by day and then woke up at night and smiled. A kind old, wise old, Moon.

Back in the very old days - the dark days - we relied on the Moon for its light; to work and fish and hunt and ride and sail and walk at night. Some of us worshipped the Moon (weirdos) but we all acknowledged its immense importance to our lives and our world; its effect on the seas and all the living creatures on Earth.

In recent history we strove to walk on the Moon. There was even a race to get there. Billions of dollars and rubles were spent on rockets and modules and all manner of space craft. Some were flown by dogs or monkeys; tortoises, fish and frogs. Even guinea pigs were used as guinea pigs. And then finally on 20 July 1969 we got there. A man landed on the Moon. Walking on the Moon. A man with a funny name. A man called Sting. Or was it Buzz? Or...maybe it was Neil actually. Anyway we got there. And then we got there again...and again...and again...and then...we all got a bit bored of it.

The Moon had lost its charm. We had all seen it close up on TV in black and white. Dry, dusty and not a Clanger in sight. Nothing to fear but nothing to get excited about either. On Earth, we started to put all this space technology to better use and created new satellites of our own. The new ones were much smaller - but they twinkled like stars - and they gave us so much. Like German porn channels; the ability to target our neighbours with nuclear weapons; and to drive to the nearest KFC without a map.

Who needs the light of the silvery Moon when we've got 42" LED backlit TVs bedazzling and beguiling us in our own living rooms? Who wants to freak out to a Moonage Daydream when we've got Grand Theft Auto? And who bothers to look at the Moon when we've got The Sun? Life on Earth was good and we didn't care about the Moon anymore. But all that is about to change.

As good as it is for some, the life we have on Earth has been officially branded as unsustainable. The global population is out of control; everyone wants three cars, five laptops and a walk-in fridge freezer and it's starting to get really hot in here. How can we keep it all going? How does an economy grow when it runs out of stuff to buy and sell?

Suddenly our eyes are looking to the skies again. Eyes bigger than our stomachs. Staring hungrily at the Moon. China, Russia, India all want in. A new kind of Space Race perhaps? A race of people who actually live in space? Maybe one day. But for now we just need to get back on the Moon.

The Moon has minerals. Very useful when ours run out. It's even got water - only about a cupful for every 300 tonnes of moon rock - but someone's guaranteed to make a fortune bottling it. But more significantly the Moon has much larger quantities of something called Helium 3. Novelty balloons and silly squeaky voices are here to stay. And so is Nuclear Energy.

Apparently Helium 3 mined from the Moon means highly efficient, waste free, nuclear power without radiation. With energy and minerals we can all carry on happily doing all the stuff we like doing. Eating and watching stuff. Probably not walking in the countryside or swimming in the sea but we'll have holograms for that. And it's all thanks to the Moon. So relax everyone. Keep calm and keep on keeping on. The future is bright. The future is pale moonlight coloured.

The Moon is back.

Me, The Queen and the Naked Couple Snogging

I live in Broadstairs on the East Kent coast, near Margate.

The Queen's coming to Margate today. She's going to see a naked couple snogging.

A lot has changed since I left London and moved here, in 2003. People said I was mad. Maybe I was but moving here wasn't. When I lived in Peckham everyone who I worked with at the BBC said I was mad. Maybe I was but living in Peckham wasn't. They lived in Acton and Ealing and Chiswick and Richmond. Media people lived in West London. I didn't. I had lived in South East London since leaving university. So had many of my close friends. I loved it. Still do.

Watching the riot police exercise their horses along a deserted Rye Lane in Peckham on a Sunday morning, from the window of my flat above the Job Centre in 1985, wasn't everyone's idea of "location, location, location". But it was home to me. Some friends had kindly offered me a room to rent and so that's where I ended up. But that's also where I stayed for the next 18 years. Not in the same flat (I'm not mad) - but other flats around South East London - eventually settling in a terraced house back in Peckham.

I lived in the Peckham house when I got married. My twin daughters were born there. So was my eldest son. Life had changed for me. And life had changed in Peckham. Media people lived there now too. Down the road, East Dulwich was media city. You can't move for media people in Peckham and East Dulwich these days. Queuing for their free range, organic, meat flavoured hair products. Shopping for their sun dried; wind cured, oak smoked toilet rolls. Pushing their balsamic sprinkled toddler buggies with their caramelised, sugar-free toddlers inside. I love it. I just can't afford it. This particular corner of South East London changed - big time. As Take That once sang, everything changes. As Paul Young once sang, everything must change. Ch.Ch.Ch Changes. The BBC is moving from Shepherds Bush to Salford. Literally, Media City. That's one hell of a daily commute from West London. Who's mad now then?

Moving away from London had nothing to do with the old cliché about being tired of life. I wasn't tired of life. I loved life. I still do. I loved London. I still do. But I love my new home as well. It wasn't all easy at first. Not long after we arrived in Broadstairs my daughter said a little too loudly in public, "I really miss the South Bank". We quickly shoved a coat over her head, bundled her into the back of our car and drove away at speed, to avoid being stoned to death by local residents. But she soon got over it. It wasn't difficult. There were national treasures here too. We had swapped the South Bank for East Kent. We had the swapped the Thames River for the English Channel, London's leafy parks for sun kissed (sometimes) sandy beaches and we had swapped the museums and art galleries for...um...well...er...the Ramsgate Motor Museum?

Sadly even the Motor Museum eventually closed - along with the Smuggler Museum in Broadstairs (if you can call a collection of scary shop window dummies with beards, a museum) and the Model Village. All gone. But as well as the losses there have been some gains. Useful new shops. Interesting bars and restaurants. A faster train journey. The Old Town in Margate has been transformed. And this year the Turner Contemporary opened in Margate too. A proper art gallery for the area and one which rivals anything of its kind in London. A taxi driver told me it's a waste of money. Then he told me that he'd never been.

The current exhibition Nothing in the World But Youth is excellent. Bright, brash, busy and bulging with bags to see and do.

You can listen to my audio contribution here by the way

http://www.turnercontemporary.org/media-channel/audio

But there's proper stuff too. Hockney, Warhol and Blake are there. Peter Blake was there in person last month and he signed my Stanley Road cover. My marvellous moment of Mod 'n' Margate . Turner is there of course and incredibly - something that would have seemed so unlikely during our first summer living in Broadstairs, when my kids were tearing round the windowless motor museum, high on petrol fumes - so is a breathtaking sculpture by Rodin - The Kiss. And funnily enough - it's much larger than you think. Larger than those coffee table book photographs. Larger than life. Two great big naked marble giants snogging. And today The Queen will visit and she will see them.

I took the kids on a bike ride along the cliff tops towards Margate once and I saw a couple snogging in a car. Well, actually I think they were more than snogging, so I encouraged the kids to cycle past quickly, pointing out to sea at a non-existent item of interest to distract them. It's the seaside. You expect that kind of thing in a region steeped in the traditions of Kiss Me Quick. But I didn't expect a Rodin to be just down the road.

Me, Dad's Army and the End of the World

"We're all doomed!"

It's the classic catchphrase uttered by Private Frazer in Dad's Army. We've all repeated it, (admittedly with varying degrees of accent authenticity), and many of us can still hear the original echoing inside our heads, thanks to the genius of actor John Laurie and the continuous BBC repeats.

Actually, according to Wikipedia, the original phrase was simply:

"We're doomed".

Maybe he said it both ways, in different episodes. Who knows? Someone knows I'm sure.

And they have no doubt dedicated a whole website and chat forum to it.

Correctly or not, on the grapevine of playground chatter - social small talk and pub banter - over the last 40 years or so, some of us have introduced an "all".

Maybe not all of us do the "all". I'm sure there are plenty of serious Dad's Army fans and comedy boffins out there who will claim proudly that they have never made such a ridiculous error - but I'll have to confess - I've done it myself.

I've used the "all". I don't mind admitting it. It's not as bad as the horrendous pop culture slip-up a friend once made. Back in the 1980's, she thought Fun Boy Three's Our Lips Are Sealed was calledIsland of Seals - and she even sang it out loud - in public. Oh the shame of it.

My point is - correctly repeated or not - "We're all doomed!" has become something far more than just a repeated moment of British sitcom glory. It has become a social tool, and a significant one at that, particularly in moments of conversational awkwardness and day to day feelings of depression.

I would guess that it is being well used right now, in the current climate of economic gloom and global catastrophe.

If you happen, as I often do, to start one of those unfortunate conversations about the news headlines and then get a bit bogged down in the grimness of it all - the impending global economic meltdown, World War III and the BBC's cancelling of Shooting Stars - then Frazer's catchphrase is the stock get-out.

At some point in the conversation, (preferably before you've reached the point where one of you decides to jump out of the nearest window, or climb into the bath holding the toaster), it has thankfully become accepted that one of you will open your eyes wide, arch your eyebrows and say in a high pitched, cod Scottish accent "We're all doomed!".

Polite laughter follows. Mood lifted. Job done. End of topical news conversation. Now you can get back to talking about proper stuff, like shoes and haircuts.

It's no big revelation I know. Every day we use repeated social codes, behaviour patterns and old clichés to avoid acknowledging the fragile and futile nature of our own existence. Frazer's catchphrase, though, is one of my favourites and I don't think I'll ever tire of it. The fact that it has become a repeated cliché kind of makes it all the more fun.

We all know it's coming in a conversation. Sometimes we even say it together in crazy comedy harmony. It's a cosy mutual friend and an emotional shield to protect us from the scary, hooded figure in the corner of the room, pointing a bony figure at us and waiving a scythe.

Some days, the final day of our doomed-nation feels like it's already upon us. You watch the news on TV and it feels like the world is spinning out of control, faster and faster. If you're from my generation, the over repeated words of another Scottish TV character might come to mind.

"Cap'n! The engines cannae' take it any longer".

Scotty from Star Trek warning Captain Kirk from the engine room of the Starship Enterprise that the ship is about to explode.

Or maybe you just get a bit grumpy at the pointless stupidly of it all, and merely mutter, again in a Scottish accent like Victor Meldrew in One Foot in the Grave:

"I don't believe it"

(Begin Media Studies essay on The Use of Dour Scottish Stereotypes in British Comedy.)

"We're doomed!"

In that simple, darkly comic phrase, Frazer was telling those around him that they were heading for an untimely and unhappy end. Inevitable destruction and ruin. Judgement Day. And we laughed.

When we repeat the same phrase we use it to mask our fear of the unthinkable. Our sense of helplessness in the face of calamity. And we laugh.

Thank Frazer for that.

Me, Christmas Puddings and the Perfect Body

The perfect body. The perfect kitchen. The perfect holiday. The perfect car. The perfect life.

Not everyone's bothered by these things, obviously, but at some point, we will probably all fall into the trap of seeking perfection in something or other.

Something we desire will have to be 'perfect' - something that, by dictionary definition, "conforms absolutely to the description of an ideal type", or "having all the required or desirable elements, qualities or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be."

Some of us might have spent the last few weeks fussing about achieving the 'perfect' Christmas - which is clearly a ridiculous and futile aim, unless you happen to be Jamie bloody Oliver or Heston bloomin' Blumenthal and you just happen to be sponsored by a major supermarket chain and just happen to live on the set of a fake snow covered TV advert.

And just for the record, my perfect Christmas pudding doesn't have a pomegranate stuffed in the middle and it's not soaked in triple filtered, organic Tuscan acorn wine either. It's half eaten, wrapped in foil, at the back of the fridge next to half a tub of out of date double cream, waiting to be re-micro waved at 1am after a night down the pub, thank you very much.

Another recent obsession has been giving or receiving the 'perfect' Christmas present - which this year in the absence of an Xbox 360 for my 8 year old son, was a 3 foot-long blue and orange plastic sniper rifle instead. Much cheaper than an Xbox and it's capable of firing soft foam bullets along the length of our landing, into the shower. Perfect.

His Arsenal football kit was nearly perfect, but it didn't have Van Persie and the number 10 printed on the back. But he wasn't that bothered (he's only been an Arsenal fan for a about a week anyway. It was Barcelona before that) and he still happily wore it from Christmas Day to New Year's Day, gradually accumulating festive food and drink stains down the front.

Food stained sportswear might not be everyone's perfect style statement. But what is? Well, for my teenage daughter, it's a pair of Vans (casual canvas shoes that is, not two vehicles for transporting plumbing tools and building materials) and red jeans. But next Christmas it will probably be something else. Hydrogen fuelled booster boots and a pair of holographic, 3D iGoggles maybe? Who knows? But as long as it's the right brand of booster boots - I'm sure they'll be just 'perfect' - until the next thing.

Perfect isn't constant.

For some unfortunate women the desire for 'perfect' breasts has had tragic results. Ruptured French implants, leaking industrial silicone around the body is far from perfect. In response to this alarming news, a radio commentator said we must all stop trying to conform to a false and unrealistic image of bodily perfection - because we can't all be perfect. Of course we can't. I don't mean to sound like Jessie J, but, nobody's perfect. Nothing is perfect. Perfect doesn't exist. Or does it?

According to a quick Google search, a number of things are indeed perfect. One enthusiastic blogger lists them as: tea on a mountain top, a Leatherman Multi-tool, Moleskine notebooks and hot noodle soup. I would say he needs to get out more, but in fact he's one of those outdoor types so actually he's rarely in.

Hot noodle soup? Not so perfect if you're allergic to noodles. Not if your throat swells up and your skin explodes into a geographic itchy red rash every time you so much as look at a noodle.

And what if you just hate soup? Then no soup is perfect is it? Liquidy food might be your idea of culinary hell - even if it is lightly sprinkled with Heston's gas frozen, crumbled, marinated, ostrich feathers - in fact, especially if it is.

Indoor types might be less wholesome. What makes the perfect pizza? Thin crust, stone baked with Parma ham, washed down with a glass of Prosecco? Or deep pan, with chicken tikka, pineapple and a cheese filled crust with a beaker of Fanta Fruit Twist?

Lou Reed's Perfect Day was feeding animals in the zoo and later a movie too and then home - to more struggles with drugs, alcohol and a troubled ego. For someone else (although I can't really imagine who) it might be sitting down to watch a DVD box set of the complete series of The Darling Buds of May. A Perfick Day.

Striving to achieve perfection though, in an imperfect world where nothing is perfect, just seems perfectly mad. Perfect doesn't exist. Well, except that film starring Jamie Lee Curtis and John Travolta...oh and that storm which engulfs Clooney's fishing boat. Apart from that, perfect doesn't exist. Everything is what it is. Everybody is what they is...or are. No two people are the same. Things that aren't perfect are in fact perfect. That's how it is. That's the way it should be.

We're all wasting our time trying to be or have or do or say something perfect. And we should remember that by not achieving perfect, we're not settling for second best. We're not just putting up with who we are or what we have. Perfect is a non-existent, unobtainable figment of our collective imaginations, fuelled by TV advertising and multi-billion dollar industries. Perfect is a myth. So why don't we all do ourselves a favour, stop tormenting ourselves and just relax?

Imagine a world where none of us felt pressure to conform; to be something or someone we're not. A world where we didn't feel constantly dissatisfied, in our endless search for better or best. That would be perfect...Doh!

Me, Suggs and the Unnecessary Pen Incident

Last week something happened to me on the train home from London.

It was Friday the 13th.

I wasn't attacked with a machete, by a bloke in a hockey mask called Jason, or anything. I was on the 16.42 from St. Pancras to Margate. If there had been a bloke called Jason on the train (and the chances are there was), he would have been holding a hot beverage in one hand while juggling a KFC Twister and an iPhone in the other, not a machete. He'd have been wearing skinny jeans, a quilted jacket and too much hair gel, not a hockey mask. More likely to spill his Moccachoccochino and drip salsa and mayonnaise all over my shoes, than spill my blood.

Anyway, neither of those things happened.

What did happen wasn't a big deal at all really but at the time it did strike me as quite funny. So I tweeted about it on Twitter. I managed to describe the whole awkward incident in a single tweet. It struck a chord with other Twitterers and I received a few responses.

One caught my attention. It was from a sharp witted man who, amongst other things, writes an entertaining column for a newspaper. His response was this - "I'd get 700 words out of that tweet" and then - "#moneyforoldrope". It was a charming, funny response and it made me laugh but then typically made me think more seriously about myself.

I had just spent the last week or so wondering what to write for my next article for The Huffington Post. I'm new to this blogging thing and although I'm enjoying it immensely, I often struggle to decide what to write about. I've only got myself to blame. It's a not a lack of potential subject matter after all. There are a billion things I could write about every day. So the problem is clearly me. And I know why.

This isn't meant to make me sound deep or clever but the problem is - I think too much. I know this is true because Suggs out of Madness told me.

I was in Magaluf years ago, doing a TV show called Beach Fever, with my comedy partner Simon, and Suggs, the Madness man, said - "You know what your problem is? You think too much". I don't know why he said it. I don't know why he thought I even had a problem. There was probably a reason but we were drunk at the time and I can't remember the details - but he did say those words - and in my book, Suggs is a wise man.

He definitely hit the nail on the head for me. I do think too much. Not in a wise and clever way like Socrates or Plato or Suggs even but just in a hesitant, nervous, kind of way. It's been the same writing these articles. I spend too much time thinking about what I should write instead of trusting my own instinct and just writing.

Not being spontaneous can be a good thing. In polite situations or circumstances of a serious nature, I often get Mind Tourette's. All kinds of inappropriate thoughts enter my head and sometimes I literally clench my jaw through fear that I might say out loud the obscenities inside my brain. At those times I'm glad I hesitate.

I'm generally quite a guarded person I suppose. No idea why. Fearful of saying something too revealing perhaps? Frightened I might say something to offend? Always needing approval? Desperate to be liked? Who knows? Maybe all of those things. Maybe none. But I'm working on it. And I am trying to loosen up.

I'm not exactly prolific now but there was a time when I could barely bring myself to tweet at all. I suffered from Twitteralysis - a paralysed twit. I remember my first time on Twitter. After a few hours of typing inane nothingness, someone tweeted "You've not said anything real yet". That was a bit weird. But it had an impact. Even a year ago, for me, writing an article like this would have been unthinkable. I mainly write scripts. Characters. Sketches. Other people. Writing about myself or expressing my own opinions in print is a new challenge.

By the way, this is what I tweeted that day.

"Dropped pen on train. Cant find it. Young woman next to me lends pen. Then I'm unable to do crossword. Pen unnecessary. Bit embarrassing."

I haven't added to the story but I've written 763 ropey old words #whendoIgetpaid?

Me, Morrissey and the Archbishop of Canterbury

I rarely go to church and when I do, it's fairly reluctantly, but when I was a child growing up in Southampton, my mum dragged me along most Sundays. Occasionally, if she asks, I still keep her company at her local church, near to where I live. These days I drag my own children along but it still makes me feel a bit like a kid too. Like last Sunday.

It was a big day for the church. The Archbishop of Canterbury was coming to lead the service. He's a big cheese. Not like 'Britain's Favourite Cheese' Cathedral City. I mean, he's a big wig. And a big hat, to be fair. He's a big noise. A big whisper would be more appropriate in church but it doesn't matter, you know what I mean. If the Archbishop is coming to the local church, it's a big deal. Mum said the vicar hoped it would be full for the occasion and that she'd like it if the family joined her. Fair enough.

By the time we arrived the church was pretty packed. It's not a big church. I hoped to slip in at the back, low key. No such luck. Mum was up on her feet waving. "Yoo hoo!" She'd saved the only seats left - right at the front. Then the vicar, a friendly outgoing man saw us too. "Follow me!" he said cheerfully and then, rather too loudly, "this way please!" and then led me, my wife and the two boys down the centre aisle, right to the front. My teenage daughters had chosen not to join us. They were at home, unusually keen to revise for their GCSEs. Their embarrassment levels would have hit meltdown.

So now all eyes were on us as we were led to our seats by the vicar himself, fully gowned up for the occasion. Like a holy, cross-dressing usherette. I could almost hear the regulars tutting to themselves. "What are they doing here? Is it Christmas again already?" It looked like we'd requested front seats. We hadn't. They were empty because no one else wanted to sit there. Nobody wanted to appear that keen. No-one else wanted to sit so close that they'd be able to see right up the Archbishop's nostrils. Anyway there was nothing I could do about it now. So we sat down and soon enough the service commenced. And there he was. The Archbishop himself, holding his crook, wearing his gown and his pointy hat, just as you'd expect and sure enough, I could see right up his nostrils.

He's a good speaker. But I suppose he should be. He's the principal leader of the Church of England; a line going back more than 1400 years, responsible for leading the third largest group of Christians in the world. He does a lot of speaking. And despite regularly rubbing shoulders with prime ministers and royalty, he still manages to appear relaxed, informal and inclusive. I suppose after all he is just a man, standing in front of a congregation, asking them to love Him.

As you might guess, he wasn't engaging enough for my eight-year-old son. Within minutes, he was on the floor drawing pictures of Club Penguin Puffles - (my son that is, not the Archbishop). Then he started drawing pictures of me, with wild hair and only one or two teeth (it was nice to have hair). By the end, he'd drawn pictures of all the family with wild hair and one or two teeth and a similar one of the Archbishop - who also had what appeared to be horns coming from the top of his head. Interesting.

There was tea and cake afterwards in the church hall and The Archbishop was there, mingling and chatting. Feeling childish heightened the sense of mischief I always get around dignitaries, people in authority and occasionally celebrities. It's not something I'm proud of.

It reminded me when me and my comedy partner Simon Hickson were students in Manchester. We saw Morrissey at the train station. We were jostling for Standard Class seats. Morrissey was heading for First Class. At that time, The Smiths were huge and being lefty students, living in Manchester, we duly worshipped them. Meat is Murder was the big album of the moment and both of us loved it. We knew all the lyrics and everything.

The same sense of mischief overwhelmed me then. And Simon too. As fans you'd think we might have run after him and asked for his autograph or told him how much we appreciated his words and music. But we didn't. Instead we started mooing like cows. Very loudly, following poor Mozza down the platform. Mooing. Like the doomed, brown-eyed creatures he sang about in his vegetarian protest song, Meat is Murder. Moo! Moo!

Why did we do that? Maybe we expected him to be more like a man of the people and sit in Standard Class - so idiots like us could moo at him, all the way from Manchester to London. Sorry Morrissey. I really am a big fan but that I day I chose to show it by mooing at you.

I didn't moo at the Archbishop. He's never released any great records. My wife might have decided to boo him in protest at the Church of England's institutional sexism. But she didn't. On that score, if we had chosen to hold him personally responsible for all the wrong doings of the Church throughout history we could have booed him all day. But we didn't.

Instead I encouraged my son to give him the 'special' drawing he had done. Which he did without hesitation. The Archbishop took the drawing and looked at it - the wild, crazy hair, the lack of teeth, the wonky eyes and the horns on the top of his head. The poor bloke. What was he supposed to say? It was clearly an unflattering drawing even by the limited artistic skills of an eight-year-old and this put him in a slightly awkward position. So he smiled generously. "That's a bit scary" he said and handed it straight back. I left the hall giggling to myself like a naughty kid.

What was the point? None. Why did that amuse me? No idea. Surely this was the most pathetic, half arsed, deluded, non-attempt at undermining authority and challenging the establishment in the history of the world ever. And I encouraged an eight-year-old to do it for me. So cowardly too. Truly pathetic. I beg forgiveness. Pray for me.

Me, Paul Weller and the Twins

The title may give you the wrong idea. This isn't about me, The Modfather and The Cheeky Girls. Or the Proclaimers, for that matter - I'll save that for another time (when I've thought of a punch line).

I grew up in Southampton. It was 1977 when I heard first heard Paul Weller sing In the City.

"In the city there's a thousand things I want to say to you" (In the City)

It was The Jam's debut single. I was 14 and suddenly everything fell into place. I don't think Southampton was the city he was singing about though because it was two years before he finally showed up. 1979; the height of the mod revival. Now he was saying things to a million other teenage boys, as well as me. The Jam had become the biggest band around. They were on tour, promoting their fourth album Setting Sons. And I had a ticket.

On the day they were due to play, I was doing a Saturday job in what was snappily called "a shop within a shop". I worked in Debenhams for a company that sold "door furniture" called - Knobs and Knockers. (It's true. I still have the badge to prove it).

Anyway there was me, a teenage mod, behind the counter of Knobs and Knockers, looking more like a knob than a knocker, when suddenly in walks Paul Weller. Paul Weller! In Debenhams. In Southampton. I guess even a mod god can be a knob now and then and he definitely has his knockers but that day he wasn't interested in either. Thank Mod for that. The shame of selling him a knob would have far outweighed the honour of serving him.

To my relief he headed towards the stationary department with his minder to buy a birthday card. Not for the minder. I don't think it was the minder's birthday. I don't know whose birthday it was. It doesn't matter. After hesitantly following him around the shop for a while, I eventually chose the moment to say hello and get an autograph. Paul was polite. He paused from looking at the cards, took the pen and my Knobs and Knockers notepad and signed his name. I floated back to work, ecstatic, with a grin wider than a brass letter box.

I'd waited a long time but finally, that evening; there I was, down the front, jumping up and down to the sound and the fury of Eton Rifles. I have to admit my woollen lined, over-sized, ex US Army parka and blue tonic suit, were a bit warm for the occasion but I didn't care. This was what I'd waited two years to experience. At last. The Jam. Live.

Afterwards I queued to meet the band backstage, alongside an army of sweat soaked, parka clad fans. Soon enough we were chatting again. Me and Paul. Twice in one day. He didn't mention Debenhams. He probably didn't want to embarrass me about the Knobs and Knockers thing. I didn't care anyway because it was then I noticed that we were wearing the same shirt! Me and Paul. Quarter inch, blue and white stripe, buttoned down, Ben Sherman style. That clinched it. We were real mates now - for life.

"Thick as thieves us. We'd stick together for all time." (Thick As Thieves)

And so we have, pretty much. Admittedly it's been a bit one-sided but me and Paul have stuck together for 35 years.

In the late 80s or early 90s, I did an ambulance workers' benefit in London, with my comedy partner Simon Hickson. Paul was on the same bill. He tapped me on the shoulder and asked "Where's the sound check?" I was speechless and just pointed. We didn't talk about the old times together, in Southampton, in 1979, when we wore the same shirt. But that was okay.

Some years later, I sneaked into a recording of Later with Jools Holland at the BBC in which Paul was appearing. I stayed for drinks afterwards and he was there mingling with everyone. I didn't say hello. That's how close we were. We didn't need to speak.

And I think that was Paul sat in the window of a café on Kensington High Street a while back. I walked past and caught his eye. Again, no words were spoken. They weren't necessary. We've always had that kind of easy going friendship.

"It doesn't matter if we never meet again. What we have said will always remain" (Start!)

Paul's been a good friend over the years. He's shared all kinds of interesting stuff with me - Tamla Motown, Fred Perry, Otis Reading, scooters, Tootal scarves, Red Wedge, loafers, Rickenbacker guitars, The Small Faces, Peter Blake, bowling shoes, the Kinks, polka dot shirts, the Who, dog's tooth trousers, northern soul and a whole bunch of embarrassing haircuts.

It's been a long time since we last met. In January he became the proud father of twin boys - John Paul and Bowie (definitely twins not triplets - one named after a pope and the other after a large knife).

So, congratulations, Paul. Now we're both dads with twins. Me and you. I have two other children as well. I'm five years younger than you and my twins are 16 this year. You are 53, with five other children and your twins are newly born. And so now I can give something back in exchange for everything you've given me; For once in our 35 year friendship, at last I can finally share with you something from my experience; from my life. And it's just a few simple words...

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT THEN, MATE!

Oh and here's a punch line for the Modfather and The Proclaimers -

And the Proclaimers said... "When you go will you send back, a Lambretta from America"

*tumbleweed*

I'll get my parka.