Eight other albums had followed, but I’d increasingly found less delight in them. I wasn’t sure if it was the changes in me that were responsible for that. Maybe what strikes a teenager as profound and moving just doesn’t work once you’re halfway through your twenties. But it seemed to me that while the music was still strong, the lyrics had become trite and predictable. Maybe that was a reflection of his reported views about the role of women. It’s hard to write enlightened love songs about the half of the population you believe should be barefoot and pregnant. However, the packed crowd in the Apollo didn’t seem to share my views. They roared out their appreciation for every number, whether from the last album or the first. After all, he was on home ground. He was their own native son. He’d made the northern dream a reality, moving up from a council flat in the Moss Side ghetto to a mansion in the Cheshire countryside.

With consummate showmanship, he closed the ninety-minute set with a third encore, that first, huge hit, the one we’d all been waiting for. A classic case of leaving them wanting more. Before the last chords had died away, Richard was on his feet and heading for the exit. I followed quickly before the crowds built up, and caught up with him on the pavement outside as he flagged down a cab.

As we settled back in our seats and the cabbie set off for the hotel, Richard said, “Not bad. Not bad at all. He puts on a good show. But he’d better have some new ideas for the next album. Last three all sounded the same and they didn’t sell nearly enough. You watch, there’ll be a few twitchy faces around tonight, and I don’t just mean the coke-heads.”

He paused to light a cigarette and I snatched the chance to ask him why it was so important that I be at the party. I was still nursing the forlorn hope of an early night.

“Now that would be telling,” he said mysteriously.

“So tell. It’s only a five-minute cab ride. I haven’t got time to pull your fingernails out one by one.”