And that's all I could say. (To make matters worse, I'd greeted him as a 'Dave' a few seconds previously - and David Bowie is emphatically not a 'Dave'.)

That was nine years ago, and I'd been a borderline obsessive for three years before that. It began with the music (the dramatic, schizoid melodicism of 'Hunky Dory' on March 16, 1996) and would lead, via book, film and photograph, to the man, and everything about him.

My interest is not that of a collector (I own no Bowie vinyl, for instance, least of all every Japanese colour pressing of the Fashion 12-inch). Nor do I attend every one of his concerts, or have a David Bowie credit card (you can get them). No - It goes far deeper than that.

He taught me that it's OK to be somewhat effete, that it's OK to know nothing about cars, that it's OK to have no interest in plumbing.

He taught me that there there is often greater conflict within people than between people.

He at once exploded and defined the idea of the self: not as a fixed entity, but as a thrilling multiplicity.

He taught me that everyone, everyone, makes mistakes. Oh, and he wrote Space Oddity, Changes, Starman, Jean Genie, Rebel Rebel, Young Americans, Golden Years, Sound and Vision, Heroes, Boys Keep Swinging, Ashes to Ashes and Let's Dance - most of which rank outside his best work.

Negatives? Well, I attribute my lack of hair in part to violent and futile attempts to mimic his various coiffures. And I now own some appalling CDs. But it's all been worth it.

In fact...maybe my response to meeting him was more eloquent than I thought. Bloody hell, indeed. Bloody hell.

ARE YOU PASSIONATE ABOUT AN ARTIST OF SOME SORT. Or maybe you have an unsung hero who introduced you to something which is now an important part of your life?
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This is what I think