Zimmer Stardust: Dave is 65

Ooh, look out, you rock 'n' rollers! The Thin White Duke has collected his bus pass. And so, in his honour, Disgracelands is having a Dave Day. The sounds of Ziggy, Aladdin and various other alter egos are filling the air. He's one of only a handful of artists who get to be called by just their Christian name in my iTunes (Dave and Jimi and Ella and Janis and Elvis - I'm not counting Madonna, I'm not sure she's a real person - and I'm possibly the only person alive who doesn't own any Adele - or Cher, come to think of it).

Little point me rattling on about the vast swathes of artists Dave has influenced - there are books and magazines written by the professionals for you people to read if you're after that sort of thing. I can only speak for little ol' me, and he's been a mainstay for over 30 years - my Mott The Hoople loving beardy bro-in-law saw to that back in the late 1970s.

Dave and Mick - dream team. Imagine seeing it on TOTP back in July 1972.

I'd have been straight down John Lewis haberdashery for a bag of sequins.

Gives great face too, Dave. And not just when bedecked with a swoosh of lightning lipstick à la Aladdin Sane, or slicked back swaggering Berlin era - superb style. An image taken by Terry O'Neill, a promo for Diamond Dogs - it's one of my favourite rock images of all-time. Black and white rock 'n' roll majesty:

Diamond.

When I was younger, I remember thinking the Tia Maria woman was exotic and gorgeous.

Would you Adam & Eve it - it's only Dave's bloody missus!

Once upon a time, not long after I became a single girl, I headed for a little drinkie with The Ladies in The French House. It's a long story (we still laugh about it now), but an immaculately dressed gentleman (I'm talking Helmut Lang, perfect navy tiny polka dot tie, silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, the works) took a shine to this scruffy oik and would not take no for an answer. A witty, silver-tongued Beau Brummel. He offered me drinks (no, thanks), a ride in his fancy car (really, no thanks), suggested a night of unbridled passion in a swanky hotel of my choosing (I SAID NO. ARE YOU DEAF?). At this point, The Ladies were egging me on, as they became quite enamoured of the man they named Mr Big (it was a bit Sex And The City, but my shoes were less fabulous and I weighed more than a pork scratching). And he was trier - I've always been a big admirer of persistance. As we chatted about music, Dave was discussed in depth and the clever blighter knew his stuff. And he almost had me when he said his favourite Bowie album was Hunky Dory.

NB: almost. (We later discovered Mr Big was a millionaire hedge fund manager. Hilarious.)

(Postscript: just read a nice piece by Alexis Petridis from Friday's Guardian: http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jan/06/david-bowie-turns-65 )