I realise I'm two weeks late acknowledging the death of the drummer from the Jimi Hendrix Experience but I didn't really know what to write when I first heard the news.

I can't pretend I was upset exactly. I mean, Jimi was a hero of mine as a teenager but I'd be lying if I said Mitch and bass player Noel (who himself died some years ago) were anything more than bit players in my adolescent worship.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realised Mitch was as important and influential a rock drummer as any of his peers.

He might not have been quite as technically skilled as Ginger Baker (although he was damn close), as wild as Keith Moon, or as powerful as John Bonham, but he combined elements of them all in a way that was not only unique but, crucially, allowed Hendrix to soar with the confidence of a man who knew there was somewhere safe to land when he returned from the stratosphere of his improvisational genius. 

As a side-note, I never had much luck in meeting any of the JHE. Jimi died before I was born, while Mitch failed to show at a DVD launch I went to a few years ago.

As for Noel, in May 2003, I made a pilgrimage to De Barra Folk Club in Clonakilty, County Cork, where he had a Friday night residency. I asked the big Irishman behind the bar if Noel was around, to which he said, "Have you not heard?"

He'd only gone and died three days previously and no, I hadn't heard.

Welsh soul singer Duffy (as she must be known at all times) has revealed to BBC News that she set fire to her hair at the exact moment she met Coldplay front man Chris Martin for the first time.

Apparently she thought she had blown out a candle in her dressing room, only to discover it was still lit when she bent down and her barnet went up in flames.

According to the pint-sized warbler (as she probably shouldn't ever be known), "The entire left side of my hair went up in flames. At that moment, Chris was walking down the corridor to say, 'Hi'. I hadn't met him before and the place stank of burning hair. Can you imagine if I had gone up in flames? Nightmare. I honestly saw my life flash before my eyes."

Believe it or not, a similar thing happened to me the other night. Now I know what you're thinking. Clearly my hair didn't go up in flames but bear with me.

I was in Barcelona for an incredibly lavish album launch party for, wait for it, Il Divo. Honestly, you would never have guessed the world was in the grip of economic meltdown if you'd been at this thing.

It was a black tie affair held in a castle on top of a mountain and consisted of a champagne reception and five-course meal followed by a performance by the Take That of classical music. You won't be surprised to learn that Il Divo aren't exactly my thing but in that setting after a skinful of extremely expensive red wine and the dry ice machines set to stun, I have to confess to sort of seeing the point of them.

Anyway, back to the story. Just before the lads were due to hit the stage, I popped outside for a crafty fag. Now, in an attempt to fend off the anger and disappointment of those who know I gave up smoking back in February, it was a minor relapse, ok?

And if I hadn't been temporarily back on the tabs, I would never have been tapped on the shoulder by Simon Cowell looking for a light. He shook my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Simon", to which the only response I could think of was, "Yes, I know. And surely you can afford your own matches?"

So there you go. A pretty tenuous connection to the Duffy story but it served a purpose. Abusive comments to the usual address please.