I was looking over an old school photograph the other day. Sixth year, Mount Temple, 1978. Blurred young faces staring earnestly out of the past in grainy black and white. This one here became skateboard and laser sailing champion of Ireland. This one here wound up in prison for rape. This guy here played football for Leeds United. And these two are in one of the most successful, critically-lauded and essential rock bands of our time.

Superstars aren't born, they arrive fully-formed, usually from America. I have laboured under this delusion for years. People often ask me who, on my travels as a journalist, is the most famous person I have ever met. The question throws me; I am not in the habit of consorting with superstars. Celebrities, perhaps, But is Carole King more famous than Paul Weller? Is Ray Davies more famous than Chrissie Hynde? I usually claim Bob Dylan, a certifiable 24-carat superstar, though I actually only stood next to him once, something not generally construed as a meeting.

The most famous people I have ever met were smiling up at me from the photograph.