Who's that knocking on my door?

I hope you now have another classic tale from the Rod Stewart songbook on your gullible brain.

I do and it's magnificent.

Nothing better than a tale or one hundred about a rocker birdin' it up with a schoolgirl, let's face it. When you've got a topic like that in a song, no need to worry about riff or rhyme - it's content what counts.

This evening i have thought a lot about Rod but don't worry it wasn't in a portentous or Bel from St Trinian's sense.

It was a lot more profound.

Thoughts of Rod had been triggered by the current storyline on Neighbours - fanaticism for model trains.

Just don't choo it.

Oh those Ramsay Street residents are not bonding around the train set in the sweet manner of Gomez and Pugsley. No, all they do is sport Casey Jones caps, saucily talk about stoking Col?!, who the fuck is that lucky bastard?, and watch the trains just proceeding smoothly on and around the tracks ( admittedly a thrill for a Victorian but earth to Reg Grundy, we are not all Victorian -Copernican Revolution time or what .)

Cockadoodledoo.

Which is precisely what my close personal bestie Rachel Hunter thinks about model choo choos, Hornby train sets in particular.

When New Zealand's first supermodel, I don't think Veruschka was from NZ, was married to Smiler, I recall their marriage all started to go belly up when Raech moaned to me about Rod and his "cockin' train sets up in the attic!"

"Oh Language" I exclaimed to Raech. "That type of talk does not befit a liedie. Imagine if Rod heard you. May mystery always be your middle name, Princesse." I counselled. "Just be grateful you've got an A1 rocknroller as your man!"

Oh but you do think that kept Mollene quiet?

As if! The whinging rag just kept bleatin' in my delicate ear.

Apparently Rod kept inviting his mates, well just Ronnie Wood, everybody needs a friend like Woody, someone who is always willing to sink some jds and coke, jump on your bed, copy your hairstyle and paint your portrait no matter how often you diddle 'em out of birds and writing credits, over to his estate, Selkirk United, where they'd play in the attic with Smiler's model train set. Train with me, train with me, in the attic you must train with me.

Both Rachel and that lovely Jo Woods, Ronnie's old lady, had had enough, despite their promising all kinds of fun with those smuts on their noses and them darling Casey Jones caps on their long blonde hairs.

Teasin' ingrates I called 'em.

Raech and Jo hosted an intervention. Sharon, that's Elton John to you and me, was invited, as were Becks the first and little Ian McLagan. Mickey J stormed over on his own accord, in a total funk about Woody mucking up the ph level of the soil underneath his hydrangeas in Richmond.

Nevertheless the lads refused to give up their passion(s).

I cautioned Raech, i put her on my knee and said "Darlin', a woman must know her place with the rocker, you must never get between yer man and his Hornby." (what with all the dropped g's peppering this posting i've come over all Edwardian, don't ye know. My great-grandmother had advised Lily Langtry.)

Still the silly girl bleated to the press, well just Woman's Day really, about it all.

So uncool.

What had happened to the unswerving loyalty and gratitude for being with a man, let alone a man in a band! Luckee. You must never talk in the presence of a man, girls. All you can do is look up through your lashes, blush and nod, and occasionally reveal a bit of nip. And never ever crack a joke. If you want a rockin' daddy never ever opine or mock just spread your wings and let him come inside, angel.

Just as well Rachel left Rod, with Liam, Raquel and Smiler Jnr in tow, because if she hadn't, lawks, with all her bleatin' and whingin and whinin' she'd have come a cropper like that Pauline Fowler - murdered and dyin' on Arfur's memorial bench on Christmas day no less.

How'd you be?

Dead, stone cold dead, girl, laid out flat on a dead philanderin' villain's bench in Albert Square.

That is not the deal.