Talking with Martin one day in the distant past, I realised that his Oxbridge days - together with his omnipresent pater - meant he knew little of life beyond the soaring spaces, and the punts of course.
'Martin', I said, 'there's a wealth of recorded material out there which you've never heard. Put down that lump of Red Leb and stop hankering for a lady from Amsterdam who performs impressive party pieces. Put these headphones on and have a listen.'
He heard me, stopped and thought for a while.
'Hitchens? Fuck off and stop bothering me!'
He never looked back.
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