Days before his first performance, disaster strikes.
Progress on the show is slow, not merely due to my wandering mind, but because last night I was rung up and told that my flat in London had been completely flooded with sewage.
I realise that you don't need to know that wall to wall sewage has destroyed most of what I own, but by sharing, I find that it cuts down on the amount of time I spending kicking walls and letting out primal screams.
Now as I try to memorise my pithy observations on modern media, my mind drifts to all those LPs destroyed by the engulfing stink and drain fluid. I know Adam Ant and Nick Cave should be safe, but I fear the Fall, The Smiths and the Specials may be destined for a skip.
If only I weren't a boy, I would never have collected so many brilliant things.
I have flown down to London at 5am, where I shall record a radio 2 show, the Day the Music Died, meet insurers and then fly back to do my first show, not the perfect preparation.
So should you be there, I think it will be an intriguing view of an unhinged mind. Being sleepless and tetchy, I think the shouty bits will be shoutier and my versions of Mustang Sally and There Ain't No Pleasing You may lack the vocal aplomb that would propel me into the second round of Pop Idol.
