Gordon Sumner. The name means nothing. But if I were to say to you 'The Secret Marriage', 'De Do Do Do De Da Da Da' or 'An Englishman in New York' you'd know who I meant, wouldnt you? Yes, its musical svengali and all round holder of a Certificate of the British Empire, Sting.

Gordon Sumner started out as a lowly teacher, before climbing the ranks to reveal himself in the late 70s as Sting, sorry, Sting CBE now, front man of that much admired, tuneful pop ensemble, The Police. Now, despite being but a twinkle in my daddy's eye back in the late 70s I have to admit I am a bit of a fan. My Grandad leant me a CD of their stuff when I was about twelve, and since then Ive been bopping around my bedroom every so often to classics like 'Message in a Bottle', 'Can't Stand Loosing' and 'Roxanne'. Good songs. Good, honest, solid music. Good lyrics ("Seems I'm not alone in being alone") nice tunes and no rap. Sting as front man of The Police gets my vote. Good work, Gordon.

But then it all starts to go downhill.

The eighties came and, whilst I was only four at the end of the decade, most of The Polices fan base had grown up and had children of their own. In fact. Come to think of it, I am of the age to be one of those children of grown up Police fans, their teeshirts, gathering dust in attics everywhere, their LP records "all scratched". Sting broke away from The Police, to sing on his own. 'Fields of Gold' was born, and eardrums everywhere began to bleed. Soon he was singing "If I ever looooose my faith in youuuu" and we all lost faith in him.

Redeeming himself for a moment, he sang the overused for car ads tune 'Englishman in New York' but soon Sting was more famous for being a tantric sex guru than he was for his music.

Now, if you will allow me to wander off topic, for a second- tantric sex? Am I the only one who didn't need to know that about Sting? I couldn't give a toss if he can last out for eighteen hours at a time, or if he can build up his orgasm for so long that poor old Mrs. Sting is a dehydrated wreck by the time he eventually goes to the happy place, oddly enough this wasn't top on my list of things I needed to know about singer of Walking on the Moon, and I don't think it's the sort of question Smash Hits is ever likly to ask. For those of you confused by what tantric sex is, I have found a description, that when thought about in relation to Sting, actually makes your toes curl:

Tantric sex is concerned less with achieving union with the Divine, and more with earthly goals such as opening up to higher levels of pleasure, becoming more in tune with the interconnectedness of your and your lover's energies, and (for men) achieving multiple orgasms without ejaculation. As self-styled "Tantric sex experts" Charles and Caroline Muir put it, tantric sex is "the art of conscious loving."

This, to my mind, is worse than awful, and, if you'll pardon the pun, total wank. Once I heard about Sting and his spiritual luvvin' I stopped listening to my CD for a considerable amount of time.

However, winter became summer, summer once more became winter, and then, inevitably summer followed again, and Craig David released a song.

The first time I ever saw the video for 'Rise and Fall' I screamed "FUCKING HELL GRANDADS ON THE TELLY!!" Causing my whole family to rush in and gawp at MTV Hits (allegedly as mad about pop as we are) and wonder why my maternal Grandfather, resident of Gidea Park, Essex and member of Brentwood District Ramblers, was on telly dancing  in a tight green teeshirt, which wouldn't have looked out of place taking on a bit-part in Queer as Folk, and had shaved off his goatee.

Then we realised that it wasn't Grandad at all, but Sting. And what was he doing? He was doing a shuffle next to Craig David, and every now and then kept coming in with "That's just the shape of my heart" for no apparent reason.

This song bothered me for a variety of reasons. Mainly because it was the same tune as 'Shape of my Heart' which the Sugarbabes had released three weeks previously, and nobody was mentioning it. But it bothered me too, that Sting had sunk this low. Bad enough that he was in the Top of the Pops studio not coming, whilst poor Mrs. Sting was tied to the bed, back at home, but worse was the fact that he was dancing like an arthritic old git at a wedding and had clearly never heard of Craig David before, in his life.

There is no need for it. None. He must be rich, seriously, wildest dreams rich so its not like he needs the money, and he looks silly. Sting, I love you, I do- and keep those Police tribute nights going, but the world doesn't need to see you shuffling around next to Craig David. Take my advice: Go home, put on your Greatest Hits CD, get the missus to put on her sexy undies, and last out till dawn.