Want to hear my origin story? Or part of it, anyway. At university in York in the 90s, I wrote for Vision, one of the two student newspapers - the big, award-winning, sort-of-upmarket, would-be Guardian one. It had a scrappier, punchier rival called Nouse. One of the things I did for Vision was review gigs, and one of the gigs I reviewed was by the confrontational singer-songwriter Tori Amos at the York Barbican - home of the world snooker championships - on 24th April, 1994. I loved her records already, but was quite unprepared for the ferocious intimacy and sexuality of her performance - and reader, let me tell you, when it came to the write-up, I did not manage to contain myself. I gushed. I fawned. I raved. I lusted. I made such an embarrassing spectacle of myself that, in its next edition, Nouse ran a parody of my review. It was savage in its accuracy. I was absolutely mortified. (And also a little bit chuffed.)
