Iconic

This month's Classic Rock magazine (the bible for anyone who has a furious attack of the collywobbles when they hear the words 'Scissor' and 'Sisters') has devoted a large part of its good self to the 100 greatest rock icons of all time. I assume some administrative error has occurred as I cannot find David Essex, Leo Sayer or Bonnie Tyler anywhere - bloody printers, they should all be shot. Anyway, for no good reason I can think of, the top brass at the magazine (or junta, if you prefer) has neglected to ask me what my rock icon is. Livid, foaming at the mouth, and swearing vengeance on these devils, I rang my solicitor to see if I could sue them into the last century - but apparently no, no I can't. Not wanting to let this lie (don't worry - my capacity for revenge can easily be described as 'long term'), I here present my choice for the No.1 rock icon of all time. I think you'll find it a wiser choice than Brian May's (whoever the hell he is) ...

Daniel O'Donnell - Irish Singing Superstar and Thoroughly Lovely Man

I first saw Daniel perform in 1999 on my grandparent's VCR. Drunk and incapable of escape, I watched in horror as Daniel (dressed from head-to-toe in white) rose Christ-like from a hole in the stage to the thunderous applause of his elderly audience of widowed old women. To the sounds of cracking hips and exploding colostomy bags, Daniel (who's teeth can be seen from space) belted out such middle-of-the-road classics as When Irish Eyes Are Smiling, Oh Danny Boy and The Old Rugged Cross.

"Who in the name of my sainted aunt is this monstrous servant of Hades?" I bellowed (I had to bellow as my grandfather is somewhat deaf and listens to TV at volumes that would put a Motorhead concert to shame).

"It's Daniel O'Donnell," says my grandmother, eating figs, "He's a thoroughly lovely man and much better than that modern rubbish you listen to."

"What modern rubbish woman? I'm stuck so far in the past people swear they met me in the Sixties!"

"All that Beatles rubbish you listen to," replies the old bag, as Daniel launches into a medley of When I'm Sixty-Four, With A Little Help From My Friends and Fool On The Hill.

"But this is the fucking Beatles you mad old sow!" I cry, displaying a disgraceful lack of respect for my elders.

"No it's not, it's Daniel O'Donnell," she replies, popping open the Quality Street.

Well how do you counter that?? If this fucking grinning idiot can convince people who lived through the Sixties that three songs written by the biggest band in the world were actually written by him, there must be something to him. I nominate him as my No.1 rock icon of all time because I dread to think what a man with the ability to meld the minds of the elderly could do to me (I'm pretty impressionable). And if I don't nominate him, there's a good chance that, twenty years from now, I'll be saying stuff like,

"Have you heard Kashmir? That Daniel O'Donnell's one hell of a songwriter, you've got to admit."