And the award goes to...

Stuart McHugh
Stuart McHugh

Musicians aren’t in it for the money or the sex or drugs (and just occasionally the rock’n’roll).

Million-selling records and gold-plated swimming pools are all very well, but the most important thing is awards, that they keep as a door prop for the bog in their LA mansion.

It might be that the music ‘season’ is winding down, with festival season over there’s column inches to fill and Christmas shelves to stock ... but we do seem to be beset by ceremonies rewarding the doyens of the music industry.

Your dad’s Christmas shopping list aka the Mercurys nominees are just out, the first of a ragbag of prizes to be dished out before the year is done. The legendary Barrowland Ballroom has announced a hall of fame, where a plaque will be carved for the likes of Big Country and Paul Weller.

If you’ve been paying attention you’ll have noted that there’s no UK Hall of Fame.

So here’s my plan. Let’s find an abandoned building, (the government seem hell-bent on providing us with a choice). Invite bands and record labels to provide us with memorabilia – Hendrix’s guitar, Mark E Smith’s Glastonbury trousers, Jacko’s original nose – and in return they get invited to the glittering award ceremony.

For a couple of grand in payola, we’ll even do a blue plaque. Deal?