Simon Price, prince among journalists

Back in the days when I used to spend my evenings listening to the Evening Session with Steve Lamacq and Jo Whiley, while rooting through my back copies of Melody Maker to read that 60 Foot Dolls interview for the thousandth time, Simon Price was like a blast of fresh, sarcastic, slightly perfumed air into my dull world.

Devoted Manic Street Preachers follower, espouser of New Romantic revivalists, and wearer of increasingly odd hairstyles and make-up, Pricey was always the most entertaining writer on the paper at the time (with Neil Kulkarni and Taylor Parkes not far behind).

And for you lucky, lucky people living today, he's still kicking out reviews for the Independent on Sunday.

If only there was something funny to say about Blunt. Like, I dunno, a play on the rhyming possibilities of his surname. Sadly my mind's gone blank in the face of the musical horrors, so let's play this straight: Some Kind of Trouble stinks and from now on, we need only concern ourselves with precisely how it stinks.

Priceless. (See what I did there?)