Last night I had a music dream about Grant Nicholas. There I was, stroking his guitar, licking his microphone, running my hand up and down his G-string. It was the most stimulating night’s sleep I’d had since Freddy Mercury was alive.

Then, The Taxman had to go ruin it by ringing me up at ridiculous’o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, asking me to review the new Skunk Anansie album, Wonderlustre.

What do you do when a band you’ve been slating for five years makes a rollicking album of unrelenting bombast and guile, harking back to the roots you’ve been yearning for and romanticising over, while also outshining every last one of the new rock acts that you’ve elevated to an undeserved pedestal in the same period?

What? What’s this? Simon Cowell is doing something selfless? Out of the goodness of his heart? What?

Michael Jackson. Cheryl Cole is obsessed with Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson. King of Pop. Michael Jackson. But her album’s no thriller.

Those fine gentleman at The Taxman were so delighted with my considered tribute to Michael Jackson that they asked me to write some more long-player reviews for them.

The death of Michael Jackson has shocked me to my core, but that was nothing compared to the shock I had picking up the phone last night. “We’ve just heard that Jacko’s popped it,” the voice said. “Who’s this?” I asked. “Oh yeah, it’s The Taxman,” they replied.

Yes, that’s right, I’ve spent the last two days at Glastonbury Festival, in Somerset, England.