‘Let’s play Beat The Eighties Intro,’ cried a guest at a small, private dinner party in London tonight.
Which would have seemed like a great idea had the guest not been Simon Le Bon – lead singer of Duran Duran, and for many music fans, the man who WAS the Eighties.
But I like a competition, even when the odds are ferociously against me.
So the host began playing endless opening bars to classic Eighties songs, and we all began shouting out answers like demented, overexcited schoolchildren.
What rapidly became clear, through the increasing fog of fine Bordeaux, was that Mr Le Bon wasn’t quite as good at this as I’d feared.
In fact, at one stage he didn’t even seem to recognise one of his own songs.
‘Simon,’ I goaded, ‘just admit it – you don’t remember the Eighties.’
He smirked. ‘My friend, I was too busy LIVING the Eighties.’
Unfortunately, his supermodel wife Yasmin then reappeared from the terrace, squealed with joy when she discovered what we were doing and immediately began naming virtually every single song within three nanoseconds of hearing the first beat.
And she was even less modest about her successes than I was before she arrived.
‘Bananarama, Cruel Summer!’ she shouted, jumping to her feet in ecstasy and fist-pumping the air.
‘Billy Idol, White Wedding!’ Pause. ‘YES, baby!’
‘Prince, Little Red Corvette!’ Cue a firm, triumphant slap on Simon’s shoulder. She clearly both lived and remembered the Eighties.