It’s the last day of the 2012-13 Premier League football season, and I thought I’d take an opportunity here to mark the passing of a number of prominent figures who have decided to bring down the curtain on their career.  Father Time has taken a heavy toll this year.

Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of Manchester United for twenty-seven years; widely regarded as one of the greatest football managers of all time and certainly one of the most successful. He won the Premier League title thirteen times, and the Champions League twice. He will lead Manchester United onto the field of play for the final time, this afternoon.

Paul Scholes, the midfielder who spent his entire career with Manchester United and gained sixty-six England caps. His enviable record includes eleven Premier League titles, two Champions League trophies and three FA Cups. Today marks his final appearance for his club, and in professional football.

Michael Owen, who made his name as a striker at Liverpool but went on to play for two of the world’s great clubs, Real Madrid and Manchester United. He played for England eighty-nine times, memorably scoring a hat-trick against Germany in 2001. He will make his final appearance as a professional footballer this afternoon, for Stoke City.

Jamie Carragher, the defender who joined Liverpool FC in 1990 and spent his entire career there. His career honours include two FA Cup wins and the Champions League. He made thirty-eight appearances for England before retiring from international football for the second time and will play his final game for Liverpool today.

David Beckham, the iconic figure who made his first team debut for Manchester United at the age of seventeen. He went on to play for Real Madrid, LA Galaxy, AC Milan and finally Paris St Germain, where he brought an emotional close to his career as a player last night. Beckham played for his country one-hundred and fifteen times, a record for an outfield player. He was England’s captain in fifty-eight of those games.

Horrible scenes in the news yesterday, when two bombs exploded near the finish line of the Boston Marathon, killing three people and injuring many more.

I’ve visited Boston myself – it’s a beautiful place in some ways, with leafy open spaces and a bit more sense of history and tradition than most American cities. What you may not know is that it’s also a city with a rather unfortunate historical association with terrorism.

The Provisional IRA raised substantial amounts of money for their campaign of violence there for years. Some of the bars in the city used to help out during the “troubles” by selling drinks called “Car Bomb” and “Kill A Brit”.

In June 1981, the Massachusetts House of Representatives even adopted a resolution calling for the withdrawal of British Consul General Philip McKearney from Boston unless his government gave in to the five demands of republican terrorist convicts on hunger strike in British prisons.

Perhaps one or two of the Bostonians who used to casually toss coins into a collection tin for the Provos during the ’70s and ’80s might have seen some of the images on the news, and reflected on the error of their ways.

Terrorism. Not quite so funny on your own doorstep, eh?

A sad day for the people of Britain and indeed for those who celebrate freedom and democracy the world over. Baroness Margaret Thatcher died this morning at the age of 87.

It is impossible to overstate her influence or her impact on the fortunes of these islands. She was a shopkeeper’s daughter from Grantham who became the first woman Prime Minister of the United Kingdom at the age of 53, in May 1979.

When Mrs Thatcher came to power, Great Britain was, famously, the sick man of Europe, a country on its knees. Militant trade unionism and a world-owes-me-a-living culture engendered by socialism and the welfare state had devastated British manufacturing and exported jobs abroad in their millions. Public services turned into inefficient state monopolies by Labour were losing money hand over fist. Inflation was in double figures. A British Chancellor of the Exchequer, Denis Healey, had been reduced to begging for a loan at the feet of the International Monetary Fund. By February 1979, the infamous Winter of Discontent, the unions were holding government to ransom by orchestrating strikes in essential services, literally allowing rubbish to pile up in the streets. The dead were going unburied in Liverpool and Greater Manchester.

She was the Prime Minister who had the determination and courage to bring to an end decades of decline following the war. She set free the nationalised industries, making them viable and efficient enterprises. She defended the right of the people’s democratically elected government to govern, where leaders before her of both political complexions had surrendered to the trade union barons.

When a foreign power presumed to raise its flag on British territory, the Falkland Islands, in 1982, she led our armed forces to victory against them, ensuring that Argentina’s piracy was defeated. When Irish republican terrorists went on hunger strike in British prisons, she was happy to allow them to kill themselves rather than give in to their demands.

But for me the engagement which most defines her time in power occurred in March 1984, when Arthur Scargill’s National Union of Mineworkers picked a fight with her government. The militant trade unions had been accustomed to having their own interests take precedence over the policies of democratically elected governments for years, but Mrs Thatcher decided that it was time for the British people to win for once. Her government had, after all, won a General Election by a landslide only eight months earlier. Scargill by contrast had not even dared to ballot his own members.

A year later the people had indeed won, and the political landscape was transformed. The hard left unions had been neutered. Their corrosive capacity to disrupt British industry and send jobs abroad, as they had done to such devastating effect in the ’60s and ’70s, was greatly diminished. And they had forever lost their power to superimpose their own hard left agenda over the people’s choice of government. As Norman Tebbit put it so well, “we didn’t just break the strike – we broke the spell”.

Thatcher has often been described as a “divisive” figure, but that badly misses the point. The British Left’s opposition to her, aided and abetted by a broadcast media largely sympathetic and supportive to them, was bitter and vitriolic. Her great crime from their point of view was her success. She had proved them wrong, consigned socialism in this country to the dustbin of history, made ours a society in which we could take pride, once again. How could the Left forgive that? She was the architect of the proud, economically prosperous and self-reliant Britain that arose from the ashes of the industrial nation destroyed by the Labour movement. In a real sense, she was the Mother of our Nation.

It’s true to say that there was no great consensus for the course she planned, but had she waited for that, she could never have wrought the dramatic transformation in the fortunes of our country that she did. She was a conviction politician, not a consensus politician, as she famously declared herself.

But she won the three General Elections that she fought by decisive majorities. Her convictions always carried the weight of a democratic mandate, and she always made it count – because she was a winner. She defeated Labour in three successive General Elections. She defeated the republican hunger strikers, the Argentines, the GLC and the NUM. She won her battle over the economy in the early ’80s. She even played a large part in facing down the Soviet Union and bringing to an end the Cold War.

Perhaps the definitive mark of her precious legacy is that the first Labour government following her time in power, having already abandoned Clause 4 of its constitution in opposition, adopted a programme of privatisation of its own.

Each of us who considers him or herself proud to be British owes her a debt of gratitude we can never repay. She was and will remain a massive inspiration to me personally, for her vision and her singularity of purpose. I have never heard a serious criticism of her that wasn’t essentially clueless or spiteful. Perhaps our present Prime Minister, David Cameron, has put it best:

“She didn’t just lead our country, she saved our country”.

The Daily Mail ran a particularly lurid headline this morning, concerning the case of Mick Philpott, the Derby man who was yesterday found guilty of the manslaughter of six of his children, who died in a fire.

The essential problem with the Mail’s front page of course is that the children’s deaths and the circumstances that caused them are not actually a product of the welfare state.

But without a doubt, the spectacle of a man like Philpott being able to father seventeen kids by five women and send the bill to the taxpayers without doing a day’s work himself is, in its own right, an important and indeed topical news piece.

Nonetheless the newspaper has drawn shrieks of indignation on Twitter, as it always does. It seems to me that, unedifyingly sensationalist though it undoubtedly is, the Daily Mail provides a useful public service. It is a sort of social media idiot magnet, that draws out of the woodwork people who will happily become apologists for any cause, no matter how vile, in order to align themselves against the publication they love to hate.

My own view is that the British welfare state is probably the single greatest crime perpetrated by a nation state against the totality of its people. Apart from being a black hole for taxpayers’ money, it contributed in no small part to the world-owes-me-a-living culture which did so much to export our jobs and industries abroad in the ’60s and ’70s. More importantly in the present day, it has created and sustains a self-perpetuating benefits underclass which is a reservoir for crime and anti-social behaviour.

The Mail has at least provoked public debate about that, at the very time the government has embarked on a mission to set things right.

One consequence of the relative low cost of computing equipment these days is that a lot of people of modest intellect are able to express themselves to a global public. While this isn’t always a good thing, it does allow a direct insight into the beliefs of people from other cultures who wouldn’t once have had a voice, some of them remarkable and confounding. I was confronted, not for the first time, by one such particular belief recently on Facebook.

As extraordinary as it may seem, some Americans look upon personal firearm ownership as a way of safeguarding their democracy. It is for them the freedom which guarantees their other freedoms, and when the time comes, they imagine themselves taking on and defeating their reasonably well-trained and very well-equipped armed forces with their handguns and hunting rifles, confident that their shotguns will stop a column of the US Army’s tanks dead in its tracks on the black day when they roll into their neighbourhood.

Not only this, but despite catastrophic gun death statistics in the United States, they view responsible gun controls in other countries as an infringement of personal liberties. It’s a similar mindset to that which sees government-provided health care described as one of the trappings of “tyranny”. You may have seen the activities of the “Tea Party” movement on the news in recent years. It represents a bafflingly incoherent but surprisingly persistent strand of opinion on the Western side of the Atlantic.

To be clear – not all Americans are deluded in this way. But what feeds this insane worldview is a central obsession of American political culture – the view of the United States of America as a uniquely free country; one that protects and nurtures the liberty of its people like no other.

The massive irony in all this that prompted me to write this piece, is that this vision of America as a beacon of freedom and democracy is actually a myth.

True, no other nation fixates on the concept of freedom so prominently in its national psyche. But without making so much fuss about it, the people of other countries – certainly including the United Kingdom and other Western European nations – actually enjoy substantially healthier democracy and greater individual freedom than do the citizens of the United States.

Perhaps some readers may be intrigued to learn that the Land of the Free is really the Land of the Less Free than Most Other Western Nations – though it is, broadly-speaking, a democracy to be clear, albeit a compromised one. It would be an exaggeration to pretend otherwise.

But as one who has worked there, I have to say that it is a surprisingly authoritarian society; policed by armed men and in mainstream society strikingly obedient. For example – would you believe that Americans who work abroad are compelled to pay income tax to the US exchequer? Or that it is illegal for them to bring back a cigar from Cuba, even for personal use? I cannot imagine for a moment either of these measures being tolerated by British people. There is a rather uncomfortable sense in which Americans are serfs rather than citizens, and just to underline that point, congressional sessions, local government meetings and even school days often start with the recital of a pledge of allegiance to their flag. It’s a strikingly militarist society too, where service in the armed forces is seen by some as a sort of civic duty.

The business of government in the United States is substantially less accountable than that to which we are accustomed here in the UK. There is no American equivalent of Prime Minister’s Questions, in which our head of government must face hostile questioning from his or her peers in the main legislative house each week. Nor does plurality of opinion flourish there; it is in fact the only industrialised nation without a significant Labour movement or socialist party. Even as a Conservative, I would find that troubling.

And of course in the United States, the head of government is also the head of state, unlike modern republics like Ireland and Germany which maintain a healthy distinction between the two roles.

Undoubtedly, the American political system allows for a populace that is unusually easily led, compared to other democracies. The famous mission to rid Saddam Hussein’s Iraq of its Weapons of Mass Destruction, overwhelmingly rejected by European public opinion ten years ago for the transparent sham that it was, met with broad acceptance from the American public at the same time. Naturally though there will always be dissent, and when students at Kent State University protested against their armed forces’ incursion into Cambodia in 1970, four of them were shot dead by the Ohio National Guard.

The United States incarcerates a higher proportion of its population than any other country in the world, and it maintains a death penalty. The right to life is respected in all circumstances in every other modern democratic nation.

Many Americans view their constitution, the same document that underpins their right of access to dangerous weapons, as being the ultimate guarantor of their liberty. That this is absolute nonsense is borne out by a casual examination of their history. Did you know for example that as recently as 1967, interracial marriage was illegal in some states? There has never been a law against interracial marriage in Britain, and as far as I’m aware the only Western European country that ever passed such a law into statute is Nazi Germany.

At around the same time, housing, medical care, education, employment, and public transport in the US was managed according to race. I ask British readers: can you imagine that being tolerated here in the 20th century? It is not something that has happened in this country since Anglo-Saxon times. But neither the United States Constitution nor its second amendment ever prevented “colored” Americans, in the parlance of the time, from being required to give up their seats on a bus to white people when necessary as a matter of policy. That particular policy, by the way, was one that was enforced by the threat of deadly force from bus drivers with firearms.

Yet despite all of this, some Americans subscribe to an idea known as “American exceptionalism”, in which the United States is imagined to be in a unique position to spread democracy and freedom throughout the world – ironically partly by virtue of the fact that their young nation represents a breaking away from the norms of a continent which in reality has in large measure come to protect and maintain the freedoms of its peoples more successfully than their own.

It is interesting to speculate how this self-congratulatory and ultimately false self-image arose within American culture. My own suspicion is that it has its roots in their War of Independence, and specifically the rhetoric employed in the propaganda used to rally the colonists to that cause. It must surely be sustained in the present by a general ignorance of life outside the United States.

My main camera, albeit I will admit to using a compact more frequently, is a Pentax K100D Super digital SLR. However I saw a near-mint second-hand Nikon D70 body for sale recently at the very reasonable price of £80, and since I own a useful and completely compatible Nikon autofocus zoom lens that’s a hangover from a film SLR I had years ago, I took the plunge and now have a backup camera.

They are similar cameras in some respects – consumer level cameras offered at roughly the same price point when new and with the same resolution sensor (3008×2000). The Pentax is a more modern design by two or three years and I’d have to say that it shows in some respects – it has a more compact body and a larger LCD display, and in addition it has shake reduction and automatic sensor cleaning, neither of which the Nikon has. The Pentax is also able to take AA rechargeable batteries that can be purchased in any supermarket, and maintained with a generic charger. The Nikon has its own proprietary rechargeable power unit with a special charger. Less importantly the Pentax takes SD cards, which I prefer. The Nikon uses the older Compact Flash media.

However the D70 was a well-regarded camera in its day, so I thought a side-by-side test might be in order, to evaluate its suitability as a backup in combination with my old Nikkor 28-70 f/3.5-4.5 zoom, which is the only lens it’s ever likely to be used with.

Now admittedly, this is not a particularly meaningful comparison in some ways. My Nikkor 28-70 is undoubtedly a bit nicer than the kit lens the D70 was sold with – indeed it’s described here as “the fastest and best super-compact midrange zoom ever made by Nikon” – and both cameras are discontinued now. Furthermore the lens I use primarily with the Pentax, and wanted to compare, is inherently dissimilar, being an 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 zoom.

Still I thought it would be interesting if nothing else, so I set both cameras to AUTO mode, both lenses to 50mm and stepped out of my front door to capture the same scene with each this evening. Both cameras were set to store their images in the maximum quality JPEG mode, since that’s what I normally shoot with. And here’s what I got; Pentax first, Nikon second. I have resized the images so that they will fit into the narrow confines of my blog, but they are otherwise untouched (and saved using the same image quality settings from the image editor I used). What was immediately apparent was that the Pentax image was a little sharper, and decidedly higher contrast.

I should stress here though that the following is not exactly a scientific comparison. For one thing having examined the EXIF data from each, they used different shutter speed / aperture combinations.

The image sizes are only slightly different – the Nikon comes in at 2300k, the Pentax 2456k – which might indicate that the Pentax converts to JPEG at a slightly higher level of quality, or it might mean that it uses a less efficient algorithm, or possibly that there’s a little more detail being encoded.

The following two images are expanded (again using exactly the same method) from a 120×79 region of the Pentax and Nikon source images, respectively. Again it’s apparent that the Pentax image offers higher contrast and a bit more sharpness, but I don’t think there’s anything to choose between them as far as resolution is concerned. I suspect that the Pentax is doing a little bit of post-processing on-camera. You can of course tweak contrast and sharpness to your heart’s content in an image editor, and I often do.

I’ve only taken a few shots with it, none of them in particularly challenging conditions, but so far I’m very happy with the performance of the Nikon with this lens. I think it’s probably fair to say that the K100D Super’s sensor outperforms that of the D70, but at this focal length (and probably over most of their common range) the Nikkor 28-70 has the edge over the Pentax 18-55. However given that the Pentax lens was shooting at f8, open a little wider than the Nikon, it has more than held its own in this modest test.

So in summary – although the Pentax is still my SLR of preference, the Nikon will make a thoroughly acceptable backup.

Since I was 16 or so, I’ve wanted to visit Toronto – the home town of my favourite band, the extraordinary power-prog trio, Rush.

I haven’t got round to that yet. But after reading an article written about one of their albums, I thought I’d try to pay a “virtual” visit, using Google Street View, to the place where their early albums were recorded – Toronto Sound Studio.

A little bit of Internet research uncovered the street address – 14, Overlea Boulevard – and about a minute after the idea popped into my head, I was there – immersed in those moveable, three-dimensional frozen panoramic views that Google’s camera cars have captured for posterity. It is – or was, a modest-looking place on a dual carriageway amid lots of open space.

I was surprised to see this. Not really because I had imagined a recording studio in the hustle and bustle of a city, amid busy streets and tall buildings, although I had – but quite honestly because any geographical location seems incongruous in that context. Other than concert recordings, which do provide an irresistible association with a time and a location, music seems abstract, seems to have a new life in the here and now every time it’s played, independent of mere points in space and time. We can forget that it’s actually the sound of something happening, at some real-life location, at some time in the past.

Those first four Rush albums hold a special magic and mystique for me that the later albums generally don’t – because they were recorded before I became a fan. They are the real-deal, classic Rush records that made the band’s name.

And here’s where they happened, an anonymous-looking single storey building on an unremarkable dual carriageway that looks like it could be in any town of substantial size in Europe or North America. Yet when you hear (say) Alex’s guitar solo in Bastille Day or Twilight Zone, or (perhaps) Geddy’s dramatic vocal in Oracle: The Dream from 2112 – it’s happening in there.

Toronto Sound Studio closed some time in the ’80s, and is now the site of a facility that teaches English to immigrants.

It’s quite common for Rush fans to make a sort of pilgrimage to Toronto, and typically they’ll visit the building that is featured on the cover of the band’s Moving Pictures album, or Massey Hall, where the fabulous All The World’s A Stage live album was recorded in 1976 – yet this place, the source of their signature music and surely the most important Rush landmark in Toronto – the very Origin of Oracle: The Dream, the Nursery of Necromancer; the Singularity of Something For Nothing and the Cradle of Caress Of Steel, no less – seems to be completely overlooked.

One of the more questionable decisions of one of my predecessors at the firm in the Midlands where I work as a system manager was to locate their server infrastructure at a data centre in London, over ninety miles away. Within a few weeks of taking that job I had managed to persuade our managing director that we should relocate our stuff to a state-of-the-art and considerably closer data centre in Northampton. I came up with a plan to move everything with minimal downtime. I’d already moved some of our services to the new place, and by July I had negotiated some downtime with our customers to move the main servers.

On the morning of Friday, July 27th, I set off from my home in Leicestershire to collect the servers from London and take them to Northampton. But it turned out to be a traumatic data centre migration, for me anyway.

I have always been drawn to cheap, second-hand cars. I’ve often spent a couple of thousand pounds on a watch, but it seems like a waste of money to spend more than a few hundred on a car. My priorities are possibly a little skewed in that respect.

My present car, an old Rover 200, had been overheating over the previous few weeks. But it had a radiator leak, and I assumed that was the cause. I was confident that if I kept it topped up, it would get me to London, then Northampton and back. I took two large containers of water with me.

I left Leicestershire early, to give myself plenty of time. It was the day of the London Olympics opening ceremony – not the best day to be driving into London. And it was just as well I did, because there had been a serious accident on the M1 motorway which caused a huge delay. I spent an uncomfortable hour or so crawling along in stop-start traffic in the July heat.

But in the end, I approached London with time to spare. I planned to enter the “congestion charge” zone shortly after 6pm, so I could drive into the centre of the city for free – but I arrived in the outskirts of the city earlier than I intended, so I pulled into a quiet residential road, to park for twenty minutes or so. I perused Twitter and read the news on my Android phone.

It was nice to be in London for the opening of the Olympic Games. I had the radio on and was listening to news and conversation about the Games on Radio Five Live. I switched on the ignition again and the rest of the journey to the data centre was pleasantly uneventful. I entered the congestion charge zone at a few minutes past six. The traffic wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it might be.

I parked outside the London data centre, signed in, then made my way to the rack containing our various servers, equipment rails, power switches, disk storage units, routers and remarkable quantities of power and network cabling – all of which had to be removed, and packed into my car. I started to shut the servers down, then to dismantle everything.

I left the London data centre at about 10:45pm. It took longer to remove some of the equipment from the rack than I’d anticipated, and unfortunately it was a long way to carry all the stuff down to the car, over about five trips – but I wasn’t particularly bothered about that. I had plenty of time. The equipment was stuffed into the boot, the back seat and the passenger seat. I switched on the car radio to listen to news and discussion about the opening ceremony that I’d missed.

But as I made my way up through Islington and toward the A1 heading north, the car started to overheat badly .. I had to stop in a side street and top up the radiator under the cold glow of a street light. I was disturbed by that of course. The engine had had hours to cool down and the air temperature was much cooler now. But I assumed I’d just let the radiator leak out too much water.

However to my profound discomfort, the same thing happened again only a few miles up the A1, on the outskirts of North London. I’d only travelled about seven miles. I had sixty-five miles to go. I pulled into a nice suburban street off the A1 in Hampstead to let it cool for 15 minutes, topped it up thoroughly and burped the cooling system. Happily, it started to run normally for a bit. I steered the car up the A1, onto the M1 motorway and out of London.

I managed to get to the first services on the M1, six miles further on, without overheating. I replenished my supply of water from the gents’ toilets, topped the radiator up again, and let the engine cool for another ten minutes. Clearly, it was going to be a long night.

I’d got another twenty miles or so further up the motorway before the temperature needle started to climb again. I took the next junction off the M1 and topped the radiator up again at a building site a few hundred feet from the motorway. Needless to say, I was more than slightly stressed at this point. But I got back on the M1 and made it to the next services – Toddington I think – and repeated the exercise. I did the same again at Newport Pagnell, another twenty minutes up the road. It was a very uneasy ride along the motorway, glancing at the temperature gauge every few seconds. I’ll never forget the sinking feeling of seeing the needle start to climb on that gauge. I was taking it slow – it seemed less prone to overheating under 50 mph. But that just made the journey more agonising. The temptation to put my foot down a bit to get to the next services was surprisingly strong, yet I knew that would only diminish the probability of making it there.

I had managed to get onto the A45, only a tantalising five miles or so away from the comfort of the new data centre and the satisfaction of a mission accomplished, when the engine died.

It wouldn’t restart. I was in a horrendous position, just off a big roundabout on a main road into Northampton. From the grass verge, I called the AA – that’s the Automobile Association, the people who send a mechanic and a tow truck to your rescue – while watching the occasional huge lorry swerve round my car. But there was no answer. I gave up getting through to them after about ten minutes – they were extremely busy, even at 2:30 in the morning – and in desperation, attempted to restart the car again.

To my surprise, it did actually start, albeit it was running like a crippled dog through superglue-enhanced treacle. I limped it forward in third gear, watching the “distance to go” figure on the SatNav slowly ticking down .. three miles .. two and a half .. please just get me there!

It juddered to a halt again, with only one mile to go. This time I decided the game was up. I’d have to admit defeat, get the AA to take me home and borrow the other half’s Volkswagen Polo to take the servers back to Northampton the next day. I called them, and got through to an operator this time. He estimated that they’d have someone with me at 04:55. It was now about 3 AM.

I left the car and walked around in the ghostly light of a nearby industrial estate. I was starting to feel cold now, and vulnerable. I could hear shouting in the distance. After perhaps twenty-five minutes of this, I attempted to fire up the engine once again, more in desperation than expectation.

But to my surprise and delight, with a lot of encouragement from my foot on its accelerator pedal, my old motor coughed into life again. I carefully eased it into gear and delicately propelled it forward, glancing nervously at the SatNav every other second. To my relief I managed to nurse it to the security gate at the data centre, where it hissed oil-scented steam from the sides of the bonnet as I announced my arrival into the intercom.

My old Rover literally went that extra mile for the company. It snatched victory from the jaws of defeat with its dying breath. I’d made it. I was elated, or as elated as anyone can be at that time of the morning.

The security guard who was the only person present helped me to lift the bigger servers out of the car. A very helpful and friendly guy, I must say. I helped myself to some coffee and a packet of Swizzlers from the free sweet bucket to get my caffeine and blood sugar levels up a bit, then set to work bolting and cabling the stuff into the new rack. I decided to take it nice and slowly and make it an all-nighter, to give the AA time to work through their backlog of distressed motorists. The Olympic Games and the accident on the M1 had given them a busy night.

I’d bolted everything in, hooked everything up and checked the servers were all working properly and on the air with their new IP addresses, firewall configs, host files and so on by 06:25 or so. The AA man arrived at about 07:20. After a brief inspection, he confirmed my suspicion; the head gasket had blown. It wasn’t an economic repair. Not on that car, anyway.

He hooked the car up to the back of the tow truck while we exchanged small talk about the Olympics. I climbed into the cab, and we set off for home. I got there about an hour later, thanked the AA operative as he unhooked the dead Rover, then went to bed after dutifully listening to a lecture from my wife on the wisdom of buying cheap cars. A couple of days later I called a local company to come and take away the Rover for scrap. I think they gave me £150 for it.

I do hope I won’t have a day as memorable as that one in 2013. Happy New Year!

It is possible, in one sense, to overstate the importance of Neil Armstrong. He was not responsible for the initiative to land people on the Moon, for which he became a figurehead. It would have happened without him, probably on the same day.

But nonetheless it was he who became, to my mind, the single most important person in human history.

It is impossible to overstate the meaning of that event, forty-three years ago. That second when he descended the ladder to plant his feet on the powdery soil of the Moon is for me the single most significant moment not only in the story of our species but in the timeline of our planet.

He was humble, clever and articulate. I can’t imagine the courage it must take to be prepared to live out of a fragile box on a world with no atmosphere, 240,000 miles from Earth. President Nixon had already had a speech prepared, to be delivered in the event that the Lunar Module’s rocket motor failed, stranding Aldrin and Armstrong on the Moon. Chillingly, it was intended to be delivered while they were still alive, but doomed.

For as long as humanity persists, his name will be remembered.

Thirty-five years ago tonight, I had arrived in Newcastle, roughly a 45 minute journey from my home town, and was about to attend my first rock concert. My two friends and I arrived about an hour before the concert as I recall, and decamped to the City Tavern, a pub along the road from the venue.

I sipped my beer slightly apprehensively with my two chums, in a dark corner. I think this may actually have been the first time I’d drunk alcohol in a pub, and I was a bit nervous about being caught, a few weeks before my 17th birthday. It wouldn’t be legal for me to drink in a pub for another year. But soon enough we wandered along to the venue, through the main doors, and into the foyer. People were milling around there, queuing for badges and programmes – I still have mine, of course – and it all seemed very exciting.

Then when we entered through the big door into the hall, I could barely believe my eyes. The stage was so close .. it was all a lot smaller than I’d expected. I’d somehow formed an impression of concert venues being huge, cavernous places. Which they usually are, now, of course. But this seemed smaller than a cinema. It was in fact a theatre venue with a capacity of about 2,100 seats.

I took my seat and read my concert programme. You’ve probably seen the online version if you’re a Rush fan. It’s the one in which Sounds magazine’s Geoff Barton writes an entertaining little story about the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx, managing to work the band themselves into the plot.

But I kept glancing up at the stage. I couldn’t believe my heroes were going to be right there .. here in the same room as me! They must already be in the building somewhere! It seemed unreal. Neil’s drums were already on the stage, with a little Starman logo on each of those two big ones that sit on the floor!

I’d managed to cultivate a quite unhealthy obsession with Rush by this time. I had nearly worn out my illegal cassette copy of the band’s live album, All The World’s A Stage. I had closed my eyes and immersed myself into that concert in Toronto, recorded for posterity exactly one year earlier, dozens of times.

The support band – Stray – were really good. I was impressed by the light show. And they were LOUD! A lot louder than my parents’ HiFi. Wow!

By the time the lights went down, I was almost sick with excitement. My heart was pounding, and the crowd was roaring.

Then suddenly, my life changed, forever. The stage burst into light, and Alex was there, leaning over a Gibson guitar, his blond locks tumbling forward, cranking out Bastille Day, louder than I’d ever imagined it. It is a moment that is burned into my mental retina for all time. The crowd was going wild around me; everyone was on their feet. Geddy was strutting along the front of the stage, grinning widely, wearing what appeared to be a bed sheet as a cape, coaxing bottom-end loudness from his Rickenbacker bass. And Neil was hitting those drums hard! And already twirling his sticks, something I hadn’t expected at all.

My jaw dropped. It was sensory overload. I probably went into shock, slightly.

The show seemed to pass so quickly. A rip-roaring By-Tor And The Snow Dog gave way to The Necromancer, a tune I confess I’d never heard but was very intrigued by. And “side one from our latest studio album” – 2112, of course – was astonishing; emotional, intense and powerful. There was a new song called Xanadu. With double-neck guitars! Wow.

It was over all too soon, but even after a rowdy and rousing second encore, What You’re Doing, the crowd hadn’t had enough. We shouted, stomped and begged very loudly for what seemed like about half an hour, to be rewarded by Alex walking back on stage, grinning from ear to ear and looking incredulous at the reception he and the band had received. The other two joined him and after a very loud, highly energetic and frankly joyous performance of Best I Can, it really was all over this time.

As we spilled out of the City Hall into the cool of a Newcastle summer evening, my ears were ringing and I felt oddly intoxicated and elated.

Four weeks later I hand over a tenner or so at Boots, and become the proud owner of Fly By Night, Caress Of Steel and 2112, the three most recent Rush albums (and there are only four, in July 1977). And if you’d told me that I’d be looking forward to getting my hands on a new Rush album in 35 years’ time, I think I’d have been quite surprised.

Here’s an odd thought that occurred to me earlier today. I can remember the events of that night 35 years ago quite clearly. 35 years before that, World War Two was just getting into its stride.

Wow.