1989: whilst mere mortals contemplate switching from their Spectrum or Commodore to an Amiga or some valve-and-sea-water-powered games console, madman Tim Berners-Lee is writing proposals for a network of hypertext protocol thingummies which will come to be called the World Wide Web and which, he dreams, will eventually come to dominate the industrialised world. At the same time, Prince (soon to become known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, later known as The Artist Formerly Known As The Artist Formerly Known As Prince), still glowing from the critical triumph of his brilliant 1987 “Sign of the Times” set, is touring his subsequent slightly flabby, self-indulgent “Lovesexy” album.

They were heady, portentous times indeed - in the following 5-10 years, the globe’s political landscape would change beyond recognition; suitably inspired by these epochal changes and all they portended, I would blaze a ground-breaking trail through a low 2:1 degree at college followed by a couple of meaningless jobs at which I failed; and, of course, the internet would indeed go on to dominate the economies of the industrialised world, largely through work-time lost to pornography. (Oh, and Prince and his alter-egos would release a series of increasingly flabby, self-indulgent albums.)

Now in “Twenty10″, however, it’s clear that this “World Wide Web” upstart has had its day; it is no longer relevant - Prince has said so. Eschewing all traditional portals, and expert on irrelevancy that he is, he’s chosen instead to release his latest not-at-all-flabby-or-self-indulgent album exclusively via the thrusting new upcoming exciting media platform of (da-da-da-da-da-da-DAAAAA) -  the Daily Mirror.

Sorry Princey-poo-poos; I know it’s easy to be cynical, and I was VERY much a fan of yours; I still remember fondly doing my paper-round in summer ‘88 with “Lovesexy” exclusively on my headphones; I still remember the crushing disappointment when you cancelled that London gig in ‘87, the one I’d saved* for ages to see; and of course, I still remember your best stuff very fondly - but for Christ’s sakes, when your biggest hit is out of date by 11 years, it’s time to shut up about what’s relevant and what isn’t. Act your age: marry an obvious gold digger; adopt a poor Tierra-del-Fuegian orphan-child with no limbs and incurable palsy of the arsehole; get religion (oh, you did); go on “I’m a Celebrity”; hook up with Kaja-frigging-Googoo on an acoustic pan-pipes “’80s greatest hits” tour; do SOME flipping thing - just don’t hector the rest of the world about the internet (or iTunes / Friends Reunited / binary code / whatever.)

(* - OK, nagged my parents for the money and never paid it back)

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