I’d love nothing more than to review an album for you right now, tell you about how some band or solo artist is going to make it big, or be doomed to a perpetual cycle of reality TV show auditions.

But I can’t do that. I’m so distraught I can’t even bear to listen to Radiohead.

Now I’m not usually the first person you’ll hear complaining about indecent exposure, but when it comes to the murky assets of an island that is making me millions, I want them to be kept safely covered up with the kind of security that only a bra, or an offshore bank account, can provide.

Yes, I want Rihanna’s nipples to remain a closely-guarded state secret.

I like Sophie Ellis-Bextor. Which is odd for me, because I don’t usually like women.

Maybe it’s the double-barrelled surname and the posh accent that’s enamoured me. Or the high credit rating.

I’ve been in quarantine for the last few months; barred from writing, talking or farting about anything to do with music.

That’s because I’m a Barclaycard Mercury Music Prize judge, and it’s not good form to be seen to comment on a competition that one is involved in deciding the outcome of.

Are you ready? Ready for summer? Are you hot? People, I said, are you hot?

Are you glistening with sweat, your skin reddening by the minute, your underwear reaching saturation point? Yes?

I love it when a band is unambiguous. There’s certainly no doubt where One Direction are headed.

The problem with the Brit Awards is not that it is a mawkish celebrity ego-trip, catering exclusively for the aesthetically agreeable stooges of the record company leviathans and confirming that successful acts have indeed been very successful; nor that it is presented by a fat, ugly cockney.

No, it’s neither of those things. I actually felt quite attracted to James Corden this year. Rather, the problem with the ‘Brits’ is its nauseatingly boorish choice of sponsor.