So, Liverpool loses a favourite son. Yes, Robbie Fowler has transferred to Leeds United.

No, silly. I meant George Harrison. You know? Was in a famous band thirty years ago?

I used to be a massive Beatles fan. In the mid-80s I discovered mid-era Beatles, and listened obsessively to Rubber Soul, Revolver and Sgt Pepper. And no-one does obsessively quite the way I do. I read every book ever published about the Fab Four: George Harrison's autobiography, the Albert Goldman biog of John Lennon, the Hunter Davies book, Philip Norman's Shout!, the Ray Connolly ones, the Mark Lewisohn diaries, plus the memoirs of every bit-player, studio hand and roadie.

And then, one day, I went off them. Just like that. Transferred my obsessions elesewhere and suddenly my old obsessions seemed naff. I blame George Harrison. Cheapening the legend, living off his former fame, churning out nostalgic Beatley bits of shit like When We Was Fab and All Those Years Ago. Get over it, man. Oh, and then there was the Travelling Wilburys. And don't start me on Jeff Lynne...

The flag on Liverpool's City Hall is flying at half-mast today. I don't know why, as the fucker got of there as soon as he could. Made a few bob and moved down south. Bought a fuck-off gothic mansion set amid acres of Oxfordshire park land. Died in Los Angeles, by the way.

That Beatles reunion is really fucked now. The talented one died twenty years ago. Now the dull one's gone. That leaves the thick one and the grinning drippy control freak.