Nawaz

 Joseph Nawaz is having a very special, big boy birthday today, and he's going to need a hell of a lot puff to blow those candles out. Luckily old leather lungs is well up to the task. He can now look forward to a future of yellowing underwear, nasal hair like a road-sweeper's brush, special eyewear for every conceivable activity: from eating glasses to power-washing-the-patio-in-his-sliders glasses. There will be long evenings reading books about Stalingrad on the toilet until his legs go to sleep, and bus rides so early his entire social group will be made up of cleaners and milk men. Do they still have milk men? He won't remember. Garden centres will develop an irresistible allure. He will wake up one morning and say to himself: "If I iron a crease into those jeans they'll look extra smart." He'll enjoy a flask. 

I've known Joe for a very long time now - he won't remember - and there is literally no one else I can talk to about the members of Duran Duran*, how much we hate every episode of Doctor Who, and the timeless wonder of "Yes Sir, I Can Boogie". We have mighty intellects. 

He has a house, he has novelty socks, he's a writer and performer of acclaim, and has shaken the hand of Phil Manzanera. That's a full life right there. Now live some more. Loads more shit to do. 

*I mean the people in Duran Duran. Get your mind out of the gutter.