Richard is a storyteller; a kind of person old tribes would choose to store the wisdom and knowledge the nation has gathered over centuries. He also very convincingly pretends to be Scottish, and is solely responsible for the name of this blog!

There’s a broad musical heritage in OX2 – spit-flecked taverns turned hipster-burger bars where Radiohead first lurched, Ride rode, and Talulah Gosh probably just flounced around in blouses. But you wouldn’t know it down Great Clarendon Street. Walls of wisteria, quads within quads, the constant susurration of the air-conditioning. Filing cabinets that snick shut with morgue finality.

Almost half a decade ago (when he was still sprightly, and had ankles that worked) I met Kevin. We’re down with OUP. Yeah. You know me.

Suddenly working life had an edge. An auditory paper-cut through the tedium of turning manuscripts into photocopier fodder. There aren’t many people who can demolish Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers so completely while espousing their views on the aesthetics of drone, Dave Mustaine’s disquieting spider chord (if you are sneering, go and look it up on YouTube), desert rock, Nuggets psyche, experimental hip-hop, sparse electronica, the parlous nature of contemporary  music journalism…

Many an hour of gainful employment was frittered away with shared reminiscence of ITV’s late eighties, late-night, legendary lump of Rawk – the Power Hour. Old tunes were returned to, new tunes exchanged. The IT department started monitoring emails for improbably large mp3 files.

Now I’m firmly ensconced in the hinterlands, where the mountains forever ring to the sound of Mogwai. All good in this ’hood. So I’ll raise a glass and wish the man himself a Happy 40^th (blimey, you’re as old as Aladdin Sane). Many thanks, my friend. If you fancy a dram, ramble on. And tell Jo we’ve got plenty of Boris…