When I was 12, or 13 or 14 I had a Joan Baez record. I had about 20-30 records then in my collection. Some were given to me, from my grandfather, and maybe my cousin, who I considered an expert of music at that time (she was a Beatles fan), and some I bought with my own  money, earned from dog sitting, baby sitting and handing out flyers for a nearby second hand store, that paid me too little to stand for hours in the street …

The first time I listened to Lily Allen’s latest album, West End Girl, I already knew what it was about. My eyes had skimmed over the headlines of articles revisiting her Architectural Digest tour, the ethics of an open marriage and, of course, the breakdown of her marriage with the tabloid-branded “sex addict” David Harbour.