What's a song you associate with your biggest mistake?

I could pick a song that genuinely reminds me of my biggest mistake. But that would be too depressing, and I've got enough of that on my plate this morning. Instead, I'll go with Hey Ya! by Outkast. Released in August 2003, it took a while to build momentum in the UK before becoming an inescapable hit over the Christmas period. On New Year's Eve, a close friend and I made the error of accepting an invitation to a house party in Brixton where this song was played on repeat all night. This being South London in 2003, our only option was to wait until sunrise before miserably trudging five miles back to Brockley, pondering our mistake and mindlessly humming the damn tune all the way home. HNY!

What song makes you want to write poetry?

It'd have to be Cemetry Gates by The Smiths, in a flash. One of my favourite songs of theirs and a fairly obvious choice in this context. My feelings about the band have changed over the years, but this song stands as an example that at their best they were untouchable.

What's a song you'd want to hear on your birthday?

How about a record from the year I was born by one of my all-time favourite artists, David Bowie? Instead of the studio recording, I'd opt for the irrepressible, icily funky version of Stay from arguably his absolute best recorded live performance at the Nassau Coliseum back in 1976. The perfect party record in my book.

What song makes you think of your parents?

Maggie May by Rod Stewart reminds me of my dad—Mick, Mickey, or Michael, depending on who was addressing him. He used to play this record a lot when he was younger and I was a child. When I hear it now, I can still picture him in the 1980s, singing along in his deep, gruff, but gentle voice.

What's a song you associate with your favorite person?

A potential minefield of a question. Setting aside history and the capricious nature of feelings, I'm thinking instead about a recent idle conversation I had with someone. We asked each other what songs we'd want played at our funerals, and she said Queen Bitch by David Bowie. That response is one of the reasons why this individual is—and probably always will be—my favourite person.

What's your favorite song to listen to in the rain?

This prompt is fortuitous—monsoon season appears to have arrived in Manchester. Slate grey sky, leaky gutters, and dodging cars that drench you as they plough through puddles that could easily be mistaken for small lakes. Anyway, the wind chimes and gothic slabs of synthesiser combined with Robert Smith's world-weary vocals on Plainsong suit the despondent, resigned mood this weather puts me in.

Share a song that captures the feeling of being seventeen.

I was seventeen when this record came out, and it had a big impact on me at the time. Listening to it now transports me back to 1994—sixth form college, nightclubs, and a strikingly beautiful girl with dreadlocks.

Share a song that sounds like your ideal Sunday morning.

Picking a song about summer evenings seems somewhat contradictory, but I'll reserve that right and go with Fat Old Sun by Pink Floyd. The loping groove and wistful vocals—bookended by church bells ringing out—make it the perfect accompaniment to a lazy, contemplative Sunday morning.

What song makes you think about the future?

When I first heard Warp Records' Artificial Intelligence compilation, it sounded like a message from the future. It's an old record now, probably basic by today’s standards, but to me it still sounds as if it was beamed from a mysterious alien place.

Share a song that sounds like your favorite childhood memory.

Since it's almost Christmas, I'm sharing a song that was an annual fixture during my childhood in the 1980s. It was so ubiquitous at the time that it supplanted traditional Christmas songs. For me, it brings back memories of bitter cold winters, snorkel parkas and flares, sledging in the park, and Only Fools and Horses.