How many Pogues does it take to change a lightbulb?

Eight. One to change the bulb and the other seven to whinge about Fairytale Of New York not being Christmas number one back in 1987. It was pipped at the post by Pet Shop Boys' disco cover of Always On My Mind. More than 20 years on and the odd jibe keeps coming, usually a pop at Pet Shop Boys and karaoke. At the time Shane MacGowan infamously said that the Pogues were beaten by "two queens and a drum machine", or "faggots with synths", depending on which interview you read, and as recently as two years ago, banjoist Jem Finer described their version of Always On My Mind as "not very interesting", adding: "as far as I'm concerned Fairytale Of New York has had a longer life than that particular song." Well, of course it has, it's a bloody Christmas record!

I'm not irritated that often but it's a subject that's bugged me for years, probably elevated by the fact I post on Pet Shop Boys internet fora and naturally the topic is raised regularly. So yes, I'm a Pet Shop Boys fan, which may make me sound a little biased, but I should point out straight away that, as great as Always On My Mind is, Fairytale Of New York is the better record. It's a fantastic song and up there with the best of the Christmas canon. I've sung it at karaoke nights in the past and definitely will again this month. Hell, I even downloaded it when the iTunes revolution began as my only previous copy of the song was on tape on Now That's What I Call Music 11. Off the top of my head, the only festive record I think I prefer is Jona Lewie's Stop The Cavalry. It's a genuine shame Fairytale... didn't make number one.

So what's my problem? Well, it's the fact that the Pogues and everyone closely associated with the record continually and arrogantly twist history, making it sound like they had a God-given right to be number one and that Pet Shop Boys had somehow snatched it from them in a bitter chart battle. This is utter bollocks. It was no Rage Against The Machine v Joe McElderry, Blur v Oasis (albeit that being during a different part of the year) or even Bob The Builder v Westlife; back in 1987 chart behaviour was completely different and from week to week there were rarely instances where you could predict a genuine two-way battle. Records genuinely battling for Christmas number one were never released in the final week anyway, as back then singles charting at number one were pretty rare.

Going into the definitive Christmas week, Always On My Mind was already at the top for its first of four weeks and Fairytale... only number eight, so, without wanting to sound patronising, climbing to number two was actually a damn good achievement for the latter, particularly as it overtook a stronger favourite in Rick Astley's version of Nat King Cole's When I Fall In Love (definitely closer to karaoke than Always On My Mind!).

Indeed, if any artist was genuinely unlucky not to top the Christmas chart, it was Astley. The week before, his cover of Nat King Cole's When I Fall In Love was at number two but unfortunately for him, clamour for the orginal to be re-released succeeded and suddenly he was up against it. His own release became overshadowed and arguably suffered as a result as Nat King Cole rocketed up the chart and ended up as high as number seven that week. Astley's version dropped to number four.

In a BBC documentary three years ago MacGowan described Always On My Mind as a "fucking sick joke", somewhat ironic considering the song was actually recorded as a tribute to Elvis for a TV show marking the tenth anniversary of the King's death, and not even intended until late on to be released as a single. Jeez, it was hardly Shaddap Your Face, was it?

However, in the interests of balance I should add that Pet Shop Boys were much closer to committing such an atrocity when they released a desperate mash-up of U2's Where The Streets Have No Name and Andy Williams' Can't Take My Eyes Off You four years later - one of the few duds in the duo's catalogue and disappointingly untimely as it followed Being Boring, considered by some musos to be up there with the finest pop records ever written. And probably considered THE finest had Morrissey written it.

The late Kirsty MacColl confessed some time afterwards that she liked Always On My Mind, which isn't that surprising as her career straddled several genres, from new wave and folk to disco and later latin music. I can't pretend to be an avid fan but it's impossible not to love her self-penned They Don't Know, which became a hit for Tracey Ullman, while her dance-tinged 1991 hit Walking Down Madison is an undersated gem.

This month marks the tenth anniversary of her tragic death in a boating accident off Mexico. There are several Facebook groups supporting Rage Against The Machine-esque campaigns to push Fairytale... to number one ahead of this year's X Factor winner as a tribute. It's unlikely to happen, though the song is enjoying its annual festive creep up the charts and at the time of writing is hovering around the top 30. A battle would be fun, mind you, if only to see MacGowan's gnashers square up to Simon Cowell. RIP, Kirsty and Bah Humbug, Shane.

Any road to L

Earlier this month a new driving test procedure was introduced in the UK, involving an "Independent Driving" section. This intrigued me because it was something I suggested over a decade ago in a creative writing class as part of my MA. During the critique my idea was laughed at. Admittedly mine was somewhat more liberal because I suggested the driver should be allowed to follow a pre-agreed route for the duration with the examiner throwing in manoeuvres along the way - emergency stop, hill start, reverse park, etc - but ultimately this new measure has the same principle as mine, i.e. a better representation of what normal driving is about. For the vast majority of journeys it's simply a case of heading from A to B with no directions needed. Crucially, however, no two journeys are ever the same; there are always obstacles to overcome, whether it's correctly pulling to a stop to allow a driver to pass in the opposite direction, negotiating a busy junction or roundabout, or changing lanes in busy traffic at the right time. Obviously there's a case for testing a driver under pressure with a series of instructions but I would argue there's enough pressure as it is knowing an examiner is watching your every move, regardless of direction. We've all had to put up with 'backseat drivers' at some point...

All those close to me will know I'm not exactly a stranger to the driving test. I failed five times before finally passing late in 1995 after a month at uni.
The five failures were excruciating and sometimes humiliating; I made ridiculous errors I'd never make during lessons - driving at barely 40mph during a stretch where the national speed limit applied was probably the stupidest. I basically bottled it every time. The fifth test was the worst because during the hour beforehand I was absolutely perfect, so my instructor was speechless when the examiner gave him the sheet afterwards and told him I'd failed on four areas and picked up around 10 minor faults. Eventually the two of us analysed what was going wrong and came to the conclusion my mentality wasn't right; instead of doing what I'd do in a lesson naturally I was being overly mechanical and it seriously affected my co-ordination. Those tests were all in Northampton. We decided to make a new start and take the next one in nearby Wellingborough. This also coincided with my instructor buying a new car and it helped massively as it was much smoother, had power-steering and didn't make a screeching noise if you changed from third gear to second any speed remotely above 10mph. I breezed through test number six, picking up just three minor faults.

I miss driving. For a lot of people it's a very functional and often laborious process but I nearly always enjoyed it - mainly I think due to the tortures I described above and the fact I finally proved I could do it by myself. But after over a decade proving I could do it myself I unfortunately had to give up my licence a couple of years ago for health reasons. I actually miss bizarre situations like jumping into a car after being out in freezing weather and feeling the warmth of the heater driving off. I still remember an occasion when I drove all the way from Northampton to Southend to watch the mighty Shrimpers take on York in a mid-table fourth division evening clash. It finished 0-0 and was possibly the dullest game I've ever witnessed but in temperatures dropping to around zero, the two-hour drive home was oddly very enjoyable. There was very little traffic, I was cocooned in warmth and I had the radio for company.

Weird, isn't it? And you're probably not going to believe the next one either: motorway service stations. Yes, their meals are shit and overpriced, yes, their coffee tastes like a microwaved puddle (maybe), but they are a godsend at times of full bladder and strangely compelling places, particularly at night when they're less busy. There's a sprinkling of people 'enjoying' a coffee or a burger, or reading a book, or having a laugh. We may be all strangers but for the time being we've got that shared experience of taking a break together in an almost island-like remote location in preparation for the next long drive ahead. Then, despite initially facing in the same direction, the bond gradually dies as motorway junctions come and go, forking us away to contrasting destinations sometimes hundreds of miles apart.

On the plus side, I consider myself very fortunate to live in London, a city where public transport takes precedence. On the one and only occasion I drove through central London during a regular working day, I was scared shitless, mostly because I was helping someone move house and that meant the back of my car - a modest Renault Clio - was stuffed with junk and I was forced to rely solely on my rear-view mirrors. And I had to perform the journey in two shifts...

Anyway, sorry for the digression but there was a point, being that every car journey has its various quirks, twists and unpredictabilities and as such I think the introduction of independent driving in the test is a really good idea and not the soft touch some in my class suggested.

For years I had a recurring dream (or probably nightmare) about having to retake my test, and who knows, it may become a reality if my health improves sufficiently enough to get back behind the wheel again. It wouldn't surprise me if measures were brought in for people like me, who have a long gap in between driving, to prove we still have the skills necessary for a licence. I passed my test before the theory exam came in, and with the introduction of the new section you could argue it would be like starting over. Should the situation arise, I just hope it doesn't take me a year and not far off a grand to do the business. But let's get me right first.

Because you dance to disco...

Watching Frasier recently reminded me of an experience I had in the early 00s. The episode saw Frasier unwittingly lead on a gay colleague with a series of misdemeanors and double entendres, creating an awkward hole he then had to dig himself out of.

My experience happened at the now tragically defunct Callaghan's bar in Piccadilly Circus one karaoke night. Back then I was fairly new to Callies (as it was and still is nicknamed) and hadn't got to know the regulars yet so mostly used to sit by the bar on my own. The person in question was a Uruguayan guy. I can't remember his name but it was something like Diaz so I'll go with it. He sang A Different Corner, my favourite George Michael song and totally nailed it.

When he came to the bar afterwards I gave him a high-five and told him what a fantastic voice he had. I assumed he was with some mates but, like me, he was alone and we naturally found ourselves keeping one another company. It was all fairly routine and nothing happened but the following week he was there again and I beckoned him over to join me. As far as I was concerned I was just being pally; we'd got on pretty well the previous week and it was good to be with a familiar face.

However, as the evening dragged on, I began to realise he was very interested in me. I tried to change tactics and talk about girls. Trouble is, I've never been very good at it and tend to describe women as "beautiful" or "gorgeous" rather than "fit" or "fuckable". "Wow, she's gorgeous," I said as a brunette of around my age got up on stage to sing Madonna. Afterwards she sat back down with her friend in the corner. "Blimey, she's beautiful as well," I pointed out. "Perhaps we should go over and join them."

Diaz clearly wasn't buying it. "Do you want to come back to my place?" he asked as we left the bar at closing time. "We can chill out together and you're welcome to stay over." At this point I was 'umming' and 'aahing' in overdrive. "I have to catch a train and get up early for work," I replied. "And I should tell you I'm, um, not actually gay." He looked shocked but persisted. "Is there something in your background or culture or religion that's stopping you doing this?" "No, I'm sorry but I'm really not gay." "Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay." Luckily, we were going in different directions - him northbound on the Bakerloo line and me up to Euston via a stroll to Leicester Square - so we said tentative goodbyes and that was it. I felt really uncomfortable for the entire journey home to Watford and wondered if I had genuinely led him on. That was the last I saw of Diaz; obviously a relief in one sense but I also felt bad for him as he clearly enjoyed the bar as much as I did.

I'd never confronted my sexuality before. To be honest I'd never had to. I knew I was straight and had never even considered the thought of ending up with a guy, so was baffled as to why Diaz thought I might be into him. But after sleeping on it and with the alcohol out of my system, I let it pass. But then...

"Kris, this is Shilpa," said Pete, a mate of mine. He'd recently started dated her, and me, plus Alesha and Pat - two of our other friends out that evening - were being introduced to her for the first time in a pub in Clapham. Immediately I was very jealous. Of Sri Lankan descent and a trainee doctor, Shilpa was absolutely beautiful (see, there I go again!), just my type: dark olive skin, jet-black flowing hair, big brown eyes and luscious-looking lips. Even more infuriatingly, she was very outgoing and we got on extremely well immediately. Why couldn't I have met her first?

Then all of a sudden she said: "Can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Are you gay?". I was taken aback and for obvious reasons a bit upset. "No, why?" "Well, you seem a bit, I dunno, 'camp'." "I'm honestly not." It was like the whole Diaz thing again, and I couldn't work out what signals I'd been sending. I could only assume because the pressure was off I was enjoying her company in a fun and non-threatening way. Perhaps she hung out with gay friends with similar characteristics.

Whatever, she wasn't convinced by my denials either, to the point where, as we left the pub and headed for a bar a few streets away, she actually gave me a hug and then held my hand. As with Diaz it was incredibly awkward, not least because this girl was seeing one of my best friends who was walking only a few yards ahead of us. I was quite impressed with Pete, who seemed to shrug it all off. I'd have been absolutely furious. Perhaps he secretly thought I was gay as well.

After the bar we went back to Alesha's flat nearby for a few glasses of wine. Shilpa was quite drunk by this stage, was still being touchy-feely and snuggled up to me on the sofa. I can't lie, I was seriously turned on but it was as uncomfortable as it was, er, comfortable.

After an hour or so she and Pete left. "Wow, she liked you," joked Alesha with a wink. I let out the obligatory drunken why-can't-I-get-a-girlfriend warble. Alesha wasn't in the state to give me a coherent reply but I got another hug and that helped. Still, it wasn't long before I got all pensive again. As far as I was concerned the whole Diaz thing was just a misunderstanding, but this was a real eye-opener.

I'd had bugger all luck with women and was starting to wonder whether there was a subtext. I'd been in love with Katrina, a Cypriot girl for the best part of two years during my early 20s. I was utterly convinced she was the one and that we were perfect for another because we were so similar and seemed to tick each other's boxes in terms of 'types' - she loved blue-eyed boys and I loved brown-eyed girls - but it didn't happen. After badgering her she eventually got fed up with me and told me straight she didn't connect with me. We didn't speak for six months but by the time of Shilpagate we were back on decent terms.

"Katrina, am I camp?", I asked in an email. "Lol, you're not camp, you're just a gentleman and not afraid to show your feminine side," she replied. A nice reply; I just wondered if I was displaying that feminine side too overtly. My CD collection - full of Pet Shop Boys, Kylie Minogue, Madonna, Take That and The Corrs - wasn't exactly the most masculine, I drank alcopops rather than pints, and I didn't even hate Sex and the City.

There was also an occasion where I was reading one of the Bridget Jones books on the train and spotted a woman opposite me smirking. It could just have been one of those random-smile-for-no-apparent-reason moments we've all probably had in public but it didn't seem that way. What was wrong with reading Bridget Jones? I'd always really liked Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole series so I didn't see the problem with reading a female equivalent - and this was a while before the films came out. Well, at least I still had my passion for football to tip the balance. Bizarrely, thinking about it actually tipped the balance in a different direction.

Football is supposedly every man's heterosexual trump card; it's a "man's game". Openly gay players are virtually non-existant and - forgive me for lazily generalising but - I've yet to meet a gay man who has more than a passing interest. Yet ironically it's also the epitome of sexual confusion - just about the most homoerotic sport on the planet. Players have an orgie when their team scores, dive theatrically when fouled, gesticulate like a Shakespearian actor when a refereeing decision goes against them, and jump into a communal bath afterwards. Paul Scholes and Gary Neville - both married with kids - shared a full-on kiss after the former scored a last-minute winner for Manchester United against their City rivals at the back-end of last season. Fans aren't exactly known for keeping a lid on their emotions either. Even at Sunday League level there was one occasion where I was about to head for a post-match shower and a teammate suddenly said: "Hoody, you've got the hairiest arse I've ever seen." I was stunned - I'd never been called 'Hoody' before.



In all seriousness, I realised Katrina was right. All men do have a sizeable feminine streak; some manifest it more overtly while others do it in a more covert manner through means deemed more "acceptable". Let's face it, football is ultimately the "acceptable" face of homoeroticism and reveals us men to be more similar than we'd like to admit. It's all very well mocking femininity in men but it's there in every one of us.

Looking back I don't know why I got so worked up about Diaz and Shilpa. I guess it was just a learning process, confronting new issues and realising that everyone was guilty of making assumptions way off the mark based on stereotypes. I should point out I'm certainly not taking the moral high ground here because I was guilty of it myself and still am. Analysing and over-analysing probably wasn't healthy but as you grow up there's never any harm in thinking outside the box occasionally - or diving theatrically inside it. So what have I learned from writing this? Probably that I should stop watching Frasier.

New continent, shame about the footie

The World Cup was a bit rubbish, wasn't it? Set in a brand new continent, it should have been a breathtaking and dramatic feast of footie; a blend of African flamboyance, South American flair, Asian adventure and European know-how. Three games a day for over a week and we had a big screen at work. Wahey!

The atmosphere was set but behind the wail of vuvuzelas substance was generally lacking. There must have been at least half a dozen occasions when I looked at the fixture list and thought, hmmm, that one's going to be a cracker, only to be desperately disappointed.

Portugal v Ivory Coast was probably the worst offender. Two nations that traditionally favour attacking, expansive football were bogged down employing lone strikers and creating virtually nothing for 90 minutes. The Portuguese may have hammered North Korea but that was a nation displaying the tactical awareness and naivety of a Sunday league team. Otherwise, Carlos Queiroz's team showed no ambition whatsoever, epitomised by their second round meeting with Spain, which should have been a mouthwatering clash. How can you have a player like Cristiano Ronaldo in your squad but completely stifle his talent by choking him with a team full of cloggers? That's the opposition's job. As Ronaldo continually threw his arms in the air in frustration during the Spain game, for the first time ever I actually felt sorry for him.

The first day typified the competition. South Africa v Mexico was a belter; end
-to-end drama that deserved more goals. Unfortunately, the bore that was France v Uruguay in the evening totally overshadowed it. Don't get me started on France. Has there ever been a more disgraceful bunch in major competition history? It must have been weird to be an Irish fan or player. On one hand jubilation at Henry and co's humiliation but also fury that they displayed such a lack of desire to be there. Ireland probably wouldn't have gone beyond the group stages either but at least they'd have given it everything.

It wasn't all bad, of course. Japan and South Korea played some lovely stuff, the young Germans were a joy to watch, and Diego Maradona's bonkers antics made the world fall in love with him all over again. Even the English. Maybe. And then there was Ghana. A credit to the competition, they really could have gone all the way, but as soon as Asamoah Gyan fluffed THAT penalty, you knew that was it. I never thought I'd cry after a penalty shoot-out not involving England but the sight of Gyan at the end was too much. I really hope he bounces back.

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. For a start, the new "aero-dynamic" ball was horrendous and clearly too underweight: passes and crosses were overhit, its bounce reacted as if on astroturf, and shooting sent it into orbit seemingly 95% of the time. Why do FIFA complicate things? This is football, loved by practically every country in the world. It doesn't need selling with stupid gimmicks like this.

Then there were the big-name flops. Wayne Rooney looked like he'd just been on a 12-hour warehouse shift before each game, the normally unplayable Lionel Messi was, er, playable and disjointed, Fernando Torres was clearly distracted by his missing locks and hairband, and the aforementioned Ronaldo drowned in a sea of mediocrity.

The issue of seasonal breaks is a cause for debate. In theory a winter break should aid the best players but Germany's Bundesliga actually chose to halve its usual six-week break in order for the season to finish early. It didn't do the national team any harm, though the youth of its squad played a part, and two of its key performers - Lukas Poldolski and Miroslav Klose - ironically benefitted from poor seasons and limited first team action to offer a clean slate and crucial fresh legs.

Accusations of club-over-country are prominent, though in fairness it must have been psychologically as well as physically draining for the likes of Rooney and Messi to lift themselves again after such gruelling campaigns. They may be paid scandalous wages but they have limits.

With South Africa still fresh in our minds, perhaps we should compare it with previous World Cups. Were they all really significantly superior? Are our expectations too high? Arguably no and yes. It certainly doesn't help that since Argentina's compelling 3-2 win over West Germany in 1986 (and I've just refreshed myself on YouTube!), we've been plagued by horrendous finals since.

Despite Gazza's tears, Pavarotti's lungs, Baggio's wizardry, Schillaci's scorchers and Milla's wiggle, Italia 90 ended on a damp squib as the two nations from four years previously kicked each other for 90 minutes in a final neither deserved to win.

USA 94, despite a decent tournament overall, was even worse; the dullest Brazil team in history eeking out an Italian team that had only finished third in their group on penalties. You can tell you're the proudest nation in World Cup history when your own fans shrug and label you boring despite the Jules Rimet returning for the first time in 24 years.

France 98 produced precisely one truly memorable game - Argentina's shoot-out victory over England after a thrilling 2-2 draw - though in fairness the final was genuinely a dramatic affair, if only for the mystery surrounding the health of Brazil's Ronaldo. At least France chose the final to play their best football of the competition.

2002 in Japan and Korea was arguably the best World Cup since Mexico 86; Turkey, Senegal and South Korea gunning down the giants, end-to-end drama, golden goals (why did you get rid of that, FIFA?), a sea of red in the stands, and the edge-of-your-seat stuff that all fans want, even if the quality of the football was lacking at times. Just shame about the final, contested by a Brazilian team considered a laughing stock in the World Cup qualifiers and a German team considered a laughing stock in the World Cup qualifiers.

Germany 2006? Very ordinary in comparison and its final is arguably remembered solely for Zinedine Zidane's infamous headbutt on Marco Materazzi. And that brings us conveniently back to Johannesburg last month.


Perhaps if the Netherlands and Spain had produced the classic final they should have done, we'd be raving about this competition in years to come. As it is, the disjointed and bad-tempered nature of the climax summed up the Finals as a whole, even though it was deservedly won by the most stylish nation in the current game.

But the fact that the third-fourth place play-off between Germany and Uruguay was infinitely better and probably in the top five games of the tournament says it all. Over to you, Brazil...

Nineties nostalgia

Having been made redundant, and with too much time on my hands, this week I created a 'Best of the 90s' playlist on iTunes, and have subsequently been listening to it non-stop on my iPod. Well, there are 87 songs on there and plenty more to be added (once I can be arsed to dig out all my CD singles, rather than rely solely on stuff already on iTunes and recently uploaded 'Now' albums). I dunno. Perhaps having already made a 'Naughty Noughties' playlist, as well as countless 80s mixtapes in the past, I realised that I had subconsciously neglected the 90s, a very influential decade for me and I guess everyone around my age.

A cliche, I know, but the contrasting mish-mash of tracks sent me spinning into a mega nostalgia trip. 'Dub Be Good To Me' by Beats International, 'Groove Is In The Heart' by Deee-Lite and ' I Wanna Give You Devotion' by Nomad reminded me of the transition from middle school to upper school and a pretty miserable time - my parents had just split up and I was also verbally bullied by class'mates' for a period and I felt and looked hideous. They say that schooldays are the best of your life; mine certainly weren't. I couldn't even escape it outside of school for a while. An excellent string of performances for my Sunday football team led me to representing the Northampton league in a four-way county tournament, but that meant playing alongside a bunch of wankers. They all clearly knew each other from previous seasons as cliques dominated, and I might as well have worn a t-shirt with the slogan Outsider > Vulnerable as they tore me to pieces with banter, and not nice banter.



The sixth-form was better, though; you could wear jeans, socialise in the common room, enjoy free periods (sorry, STUDY periods) and get into clubs and get pissed - mostly to tunes like 'I Luv U Baby' by The Original, 'The Bomb' by Bucketheads and 'Dreamer' by Livin' Joy. Outside of school I also enjoyed possibly my favourite football era playing for Fiveways, a team built from scratch within the space of a month. It wasn't all great, though. I failed my driving test five times while others breezed through theirs first time, and girls were a complete enigma. Even those I got on with had reputations for bitching behind others' backs and romance was completely off the radar. To be perfectly honest I didn't realise girls could be nice until I went to uni...



As for most people uni was a life-changing experience - living away from home and looking after oneself for the first time; endless student nights; money-management; random snogs. So many memories - laughs in the common room ('Spaceman' by Babylon Zoo); being in love in the summer of 96 ('Before' by Pet Shop Boys); clubbing ('Children' by Robert Miles and 'Insomnia' by Faithless); our legendary student union weekly piss-up known as "Shipwrecked" ('Never Forget' by Take That); late-night wistful thinking ('The Masterplan' by Oasis). This was just the first year.



It quietened down a bit after that, of course. No more living on campus, the student union and "Shipwrecked" were no longer ours, nights out became far less frequent, and rowdy common room banter was now lighthearted chat in front of Countdown and Neighbours. "Bangin' choons" were also replaced by more introspective and frankly much better music, with 'What Do You Want From Me' by Monaco, 'Your Woman' by White Town and 'Monday Morning, 5:19' by Rialto echoing a period of slightly more intense study as I attempted to decipher my own lecture notes in the bedroom. 'Little Britain' by Dreadzone was a sinister reminder of the habitual weekly late-night viewing of Southend United's latest disaster in Endsleigh League Extra.



As I ponder my next move in life at the age of 33, it's this late-90s period that appears to want to suck me back to the decade the most. I have no job to get up for, daytime TV is back on the menu, I still can't drive (though circumstances have forced this), I still listen to Pet Shop Boys, Faithless and Take That, and Southend are in Division 4. Perhaps it was better back then. I was young, didn't have health issues, the charts were still listenable, Countdown was hosted by Richard Whiteley, and I could go out with a tenner and still come home with change to spare.

On the flipside, I now no longer have an overdraft, I'm much less angst-ridden, I'm much better looking and I have the love of a great woman. Take That told us to never forget where we've come here from, and my playlist obliged. But as great as 'Groove Is In The Heart', 'I Luv You Baby', 'Insomnia' and 'Monday Morning, 5:19' were, and still are, memories are mixed and nostalgia is not ultimately fulfilling. There's plenty I would change if I could go back but life is a learning curve and hindsight isn't in the future tense.