Would I have liked this account of Clapton's superstar sex, drugs and rock'n'roll lifestyle as much as I did Keith Richard's if it, too, had been read by Johnny Depp? Probably. It might have made it easier to believe all those stories about driving his Ferrari up to Wales to see his fiancée Alice, Lord Harlech's daughter, stealing Patti Boyd off his mate George Harrison and pulling Carla Bruni, but I can't because David Bauckham sounds like an accountant. Maybe Clapton does too.
Last week I asked for suggestions to renew my faded podcast feeds, and they duly rolled in. I duly subscribed ... and have been very disappointed. If you must subject someone to your monotonous nasal drone for over an hour, please do it to a relative and don't subject the world to a podcast, no matter how good the content is.