My imitation Fender Stratocaster only has five strings. The “high” E snapped about five years ago and I haven’t bothered to replace it. It’s also spectacularly out of tune.

I’ve had it since I was fifteen, which is now a scarily long time ago.

Back when I was in secondary school, I was briefly in a band. Well, my mate and I used to meet up and attempt to write songs. He wrote the music because he could play the clarinet, whereas I couldn’t play anything at all. He wasn’t actually going to play the clarinet in the band, though—he was going to be our bass guitarist. To be entirely fair to him, I think he did eventually learn how to play the bass.

I, on the other hand, was going to be the lead singer and lead guitarist, despite having no discernible talent for either of those things. I sometimes still sing in the car when I’m completely on my own, but I never mastered more than a few basic chords on the guitar.

What I could do was write song lyrics, and this I did in abundance.

Had we managed to secure the services of a drummer, had I actually learned to play, and had I been able to sing even remotely in tune, who knows what could have happened. I’d imagine you’d all now be humming along to our massive back catalogue, which would undoubtedly include smash hits like:

• Toxic Hairspray
• Stress-head
• Dorset Farmer (Yes, we seriously had a song called Dorset Farmer)

But my absolute favourite by far was a track called Car Sick. It’s the only one I can still remember some of the lyrics to, so I’ll share the chorus with you now:

Because I’m car sick, 
Gonna spew everywhere. 
Car sick, 
Mum’s going spare. 
Car sick, 
Are we nearly there? 
Car sick, 
Gonna spew everywhere.

When I tell you that the three verses of the song were every bit as poignant as that chorus, you’ll recognise that we had a sure fire hit on our hands.

Alas, the total lack of musical talent did get in the way. While the dream of being a rock star lasted for most of the latter end of my secondary education, it died a quiet death shortly afterwards.

However, I could never bring myself to part with the guitar. I did sell my amplifier in my early twenties for what was, in the end, a single evening’s beer money—which is actually a bit “rock and roll” if you think about it.

My guitar now mostly leans against a bookcase in the spare room, entirely unused and gathering dust. Occasionally, though, I do feel moved to pick it up and strum the chords to Green Day’s Basket Case, which is the only song I can physically remember how to play.

Such a moment happened this week.

When my beloved discovered me standing there, passionately strumming away on an unplugged, five-string, completely tuneless electric guitar, she stopped and shot me a look of deep, affectionate pity.

“You’re very cute,” she told me, “but you are an idiot…”