I can still remember that time well, it was shortly after I’d moved down to London, fresh from York with my prized degree in English and ready to rise to the top of the music journalism game. It wasn’t dead sensible of me, looking back, but Father’s good name stood me in good stead. It got me a column early on – they encouraged me to play up the young, drugs, illegal raves, respected father, tearaway angle because it made a good narrative – apparently. Apparently not, because it was cancelled a few months later, but it was a start. Most of the time I had to invent the stories whole-cloth, which as it happens I’m good at, because the only contacts I had were newspaper men, who were all in the 30s at the very youngest. And, of course, wankery being what it is, one of them, “Michael” Howard,
