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I was born in 1941 in Preston, England, went to school, took 4 years failing to get a degree in Fine Art at Newcastle University but met Richard Hamilton and Victor Pasmore there and was almost a contemporary of Brian Ferry. I then mooched about in Newcastle, Manchester and London, where I at last decided that since the only thing I am actually much good at is playing the piano I ought to try doing it professionally.

                     I’ve been trying ever since, first in London, then in a country which has now disappeared, Yugoslavia, and finally in Germany, which seems to be still there, or at least the part I live in is. I haven’t checked the rest of it for a while - there could be a bottomless smoking chasm a couple of hundred miles from here that it’s all fallen into. You can never be quite sure about  these things, I find - if the moon landings could have been faked for TV then doing a Potemkin Germany would be child’s play for the digitals. That’s why it’s important to have good music and some decent wine to drink - you worry much less about why planes don’t fall out of the sky and what  happened to the pen you had in your hand a couple of nano-seconds ago.

Another thing - I’m 62 and I don’t know how it happened. There I was, chortling in my play-pen, and suddenly . . .

Actually, although being 62 is rather unwonderful, it is at least better than being 16, which is something, I suppose, although it makes you feel a bit insecure when you put the name of a contemporary into Google to see if he’s got a web-site and what you get is an obituary.

If you’ve got this far, do you mind my asking why on earth you’ve been reading the autobiography of someone you’ve never heard of and will never meet? Send me an e-post card and tell me about it.

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