So it’s just going to be the once on Peel. That was a strange summer, when the customary laziness was suddenly interrupted by unfamiliar terms like “airplay” and “contract”. Then the singer got eight years for stammering during an armed robbery and the guy in the suit ran off with the money. Or something – I never did understand.
I found God a couple of years later in Collett’s, the Communist bookshop on the Charing Cross Road (founded by cleaning materials heiress Eva Reckitt), and I endeavoured to interest him in something about which I thought I knew quite a lot and about which he turned out to know more. This ruined my chances with the closet Maoist on the music desk, for which I am also profoundly grateful.
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