Jamie Low was born high but then got progressively lower as the years went on. He’s presently so low you can only see his head and neck and then only if you are possessed of the finer quality gardening implements (Spear & Jackson upwards).

As a nipper he discovered acid house while walking his pet lurchers Snowy and Bonzo (acid house was lurking in the bushes waiting to expose itself to winsome young ladies). He was hooked. The lurchers were less keen.

Trips to the Hacienda followed by further investigative forays to the island of Ibiza (turn right at Halifax and keep walking for another 1000 miles). He was bitten by the DJ bug, though fortunately anti-histamines were at hand to cure the poor lad. The doctors confessed that nothing could be done to help him. Like herpes or Dale Winton, it’s one of those things that never really goes away.

Twenty years later finds Jamie still Djing, still obsessively searching for new records and entertaining ne’erdowells in whatever capacity he is able, providing it is more or less legal. It’s all John Peel’s fault. Or was it Jon Da Silva? Anyway, someone called John. We’ve passed his name on to the police. But not his records.