There is a tremendous album somewhere in my house. I can’t say for certain where it actually is but it’s here somewhere.The reason I can’t put my hands on it right away is simple. I can’t drive with this album. Really. I couldn’t dare. I sing – loudly – with huge enthusiasm and occasionally correct lyrics and my heart soars.

Much as I would love to have that album in my car, I wouldn’t be safe on the road. It would be great for sitting in a lay-by, or drumming my fingers against the steering wheel in a traffic jam that stretches from here to Land’s End. But any suggestion of movement, and I would distract other drivers with the passion of my performance.

So, what is the album?

Classic Rock.

Tonnes of Toto, mountains of Meatloaf, Alice Cooper (I played School’s Out For Summer for a whole morning, and most of an afternoon, on the day I quit college), lots of Lennon, rollicking Roxy Music, the blessed Blondie. Plus: Doobie Brothers, Lou Reed, Blue Oyster Cult, Status Quo, and the finest of the lot – Python Lee Jackson featuring Rod Stewart.

Really, this can be howled even in a living room. I speak from experience. Go ahead.