I'm still full of ambitions, and this is at the time of my life, when if the books and psycho-therapists are to be believed, I should be tacking my sails and accommodating to reality. Clearly, I'm bucking that.

I admit that a lot of what I hope for, frankly ain't going to happen, well not in this life, or even at the time when it could have, had all the arrows pointed in the same direction. How ever hard I wish, I'm never going to be playing "Safe European Home" with the Clash. For one thing, Joe's not around anymore and there's another fly in the ointment, I can plod through chords slowly but I really can't play the damn guitar.

Much as I'd like to be paparazzi fodder, photo-lens candy, struggling out of some night club in the wee small hours with the obligatory mystery blonde. I know that's dead on the starting blocks. Waiting to pay for a large doner outside the mobile kebab shop at two a.m. is the level of nightlife action I see.

Nevertheless, you simply have to hope, without that what is there. Hope keeps you going. Even now, and I'm getting close to veteran status, I'd like to be that man all mothers beg their daughters never to see because he's got a 'rep', an outlaw, trouble with a capital T. Plead, cajole, threaten as much as they want, mothers know, just know, their daughters will be fascinated by these snake charmers.

The reality, and to be honest, I'm not even sure if I've even featured in one of these entreaties, is that mothers will have pointed as an example of man their daughters should go out with, because...because he's nice. Nice is vanilla, it's beige, it's taupe. Great.