Philip Lynott died, way before his time, in the same hospital that I was born. Co-incidence? Of course, although I must admit there were occasions when I was young and mad and puffed-up with critical arrogance, that I was convinced poor Phil gasping his last painful breath at the age of 36 in Salisbury Infirmary just a few wards away from where I drew my squalling first one was all part of some grand cosmic design.rnYou see, I spent the best part of the 1980s working as a writer for a now deceased weekly music paper called Melody Maker and it was my good fortune to interview quite a number of famous folk, most of whom were politeness itself.
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