I was a music journalist for a long time. I haven’t been a music journalist for a long time. Nonetheless, I still get sent a whole bunch of new releases from a music industry that is, we’re repeatedly told, in meltdown. I’ve tried to tell them I don’t write about music that much any more, certainly not for magazines and newspapers, but they won’t listen. Or, at least, the only ones who’ve listened are those who once sent me music I actually wanted. Because now I just get junk; in particular R ‘n’ B warblers who’ll never make it and has-beens who’ve made it, sold it and spent it.

When I first started writing about music, the freebies were half the reason for doing the job and I was so excited when those Jiffy bags dropped on my doormat. In the first place, I got every new album I could possibly want. In the second, I sold anything I didn’t to the local record exchange. My first column? I wrote about 15 hip hop reviews a month for the princely sum of £50. Selling on the detritus was a vital, if nominally illegal, part of my income.

Tonight, I ran into my old friend Johnny; a reformed hack of similar vintage. We talked about the promo phenomenon. He told me that he now throws them away, unplayed, and keeps the sleeves (in case he wants to burn something) and the envelopes (in case he wants to send something). I do exactly the same. Thank god for packaging. No wonder the music industry’s in meltdown. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.