Our tale begins, like so many others, in an unassuming English suburb. It’s late in the summer of 1982 in Davyhulme, a uniquely uninteresting Mancunian satellite famed for its proximity to the Trafford Centre (which, alas, has not yet been built). The population of this sleepy town has just increased by one: Jacque and Jacqueline Noir have spawned a boy-child.

Jim (as he came to be known) enjoyed a typical childhood, entertaining himself with fanciful notions of becoming a footballer, a racing driver or a stuntman. But he soon realised he had a gift that involved not balls or wheels or fire-proof suits, but notes and treble clefs and whatnot. It was the gift of song. This was the ‘80s, remember, when Casio keyboards were atop every child’s Christmas wishlist. When Jim tickled the plastic ivories on his, a strange magic flowed from each digit, and by the tender age of nine he was busily composing his own songs.