Some people have an intense need to broadcast their musical preferences at distracting volumes. In this office at the moment we can all hear a distant buzz of Amy Winehouse, presumably because the headphone-owning owner of the CD feels that it's about time we all reaped the benefit of “You're My Ladyboy”, or whatever it's called. I've never quite come to grips with this phenomenon, and anyone who knows me will be familiar with my impulse to dive for the CD player's off switch when someone enters the room, and also to clam up and mutter unintelligibly when asked what I'm listening to. Crayola, on the other hand, has an intense and manly pride in every record he owns and I've seen him play Bogshed records to visitors to the flat whose bag is more aligned to Meatloaf. He bobs around, with a look of glee on his face, willing his audience to enjoy it. Sometimes they probably do. At Christmas I discovered that shortly before my arrival at the ancestral seat, my sister had been playing Free French records to my GRANDMOTHER. That would have finished me off completely.

I have it on good authority that my friend and source of constant encouragement Andy Holloway used to walk around Welwyn Garden City with a ghetto blaster playing very loud selections from “Hex Enduction Hour” by The Fall. Citizens of Brixton who own cars with massive bolt-on exhausts turn their vehicles into 3,000W PA systems purely to keep us all informed. Pals like Anthony make a living out of spinning their favourite discs to crowds of strangers. But I don't think it's something I could ever do. I'd play everything at inaudible volume, would refuse to turn it up, and when asked for the name of the artist would say “Oh, you know, something… anything. Music.” would say “HE'S PLAYING JACKDAW WITH CROWBAR!” and I'd have to go and hide in the toilets.