I've told this one before, but now I have the chance of apologising to TV's The Keith Chegwin in person. How can I pass up the opportunity to unload myself of this huge slice of guilt that has tormented me for my entire adult life?
Dear TV's The Keith ChegwinFingers crossed that I escape with my life.
A lot of people have been having a go at you recently over one thing or another, so I thought it my duty to redress the balance.
Look, the long and the short of it is that I owe you an apology. A grovelling, fawning apology for flashing my arse at you on the M1 motorway twenty years ago.
Excuse: Bigger boys made me do it.
It's like this: I was part of a party of Arsenal football fans travelling home from a crushing 2-1 Sunday evening victory at Villa Park, heading back down to London in the back of my pal Mark's Ford Escort.
It was early autumn, it was dark, and as usual the M1 was like a car park from Birmingham all the way to London. And there, in the slow lane was TV's The Keith Chegwin. We knew it was you, because you had "TV's The Keith Chegwin" written on the side of your car. And, call it youthful bravado, but we mooned you. We mooned you hard, in shifts, all the way from Rugby to the M25.
Frankly, the last thing anybody wants to see when you're stuck, bored out of your wits behind the wheel of your car in a Sunday night traffic jam on the M1 is a bunch of hairy arses staring back at you for two and a half hours. So fair play for not ducking into a service station when you had the chance.
For, if the observer watched closely, he would have seen your youthful innocence escaping through the sun roof. Cheggers would never play pop, ever again.
So, if for any reason you ended up foraging for stuff in the bins behind Woolies in Newbury (and they were great those Woolies bins), you may blame the mental battering meted out by myself and my so-called best footballing buddies, at least one of whom has fled to New Zealand in shame, guilt and despair.