What will be forgotten – probably very promptly – are the less desirable elements of his existence; the efforts to make himself into a lego-faced white guy, for starters. It’ll be the same people who were slagging him silly last week, who will now pretend to be personally offended when someone cracks one of the inevitible tasteless gags that will now be circulating. You know the people I mean; the folks who shed tabloid tears over a total stranger who bought it in a tunnel, even though they called her a disgrace while she was alive… and still siezed the opportunity for a bonus booze-up on that bizarre ‘day of national mourning’ we were gifted.

Why is it that we only seem to love these people once they’re dead? There’ll probably be some wacko Jacko fanclub fatwa on Martin Bashir and Jarvis Cocker by the end of the month, despite the base satisfaction we all enjoyed from their bad-boy antics.

In conclusion, Foilface have decided we will all live as officially dead people from now on for the good of our recent music. This means you can idolise us stupid to show everyone just what a caring person you are. We tick all the boxes – you probably didn’t know us, you didn’t really care about us, and anyone who doesn’t understand your latest excuse for an almighty self-indulgent bender is clearly just heartless scum.

Ten minutes later I received an email from some tool who calls himself, Spoilface and my briefly optimistic feelings sank quicker than a broken flapjack in a mug of steaming hot Kenco.

The melty faced twazzock has been googling himself silly and even has misspelt and rhymed versions of his name google alerted to himself every day. That’s how he came across our site – and he’s not impressed.

“What is this piffle?” he enquired upon my good self, “it reminds me of those hackneyed guff peddlars, The Eagles, but without the expertise and bonhomie”. The wordy prick goes on to waffle about how, “the juxtaposition of terraced housing communities and cliched heartbreak smacks of ruinous naivety”, he even compares the vocals on ‘Sad House’ to the, “after sex bravado of an ageing and paunch-inflicted Jimmy Sommerville”.

So, then, who is this Spoilface quent? Well, look at him for starters. He’s like the love child of Charlotte Bronte and Joleon Lescott. He was probably the last one to wank on a cracker at college too – he’s got that look about him – the kind that as a child sucked on his mum’s tits till he had a full set of teeth.

And what does he do? Well he’s got no recent music, no great tunes to download or funny blogs filled with joyous gubbins. No, he lectures biochemistry and theatre studies in Birmingham and writes essays about dust-mites and Brecht. He’s a knob cheese.