My friend Billy Knight moved to Italy a few years ago to star in a traveling musical about The Beatles, and never came back. This is typical of Billy Knight, who is really called William — I think I’m the only person who still calls him Billy and he flinches whenever I do it. Even I flinch when I do it. He is totally a William but I always insisted on him being a Billy. This says all you need to know about going to a private school together in South London.

So Billy Knight knows me better than most people. I say it’s typical of him to move to Italy and never come back because he always lands on his feet. Even with hair like this, he lands on his feet. Nutter:

In our early twenties we were living at our parents’ houses in Croydon after returning from college, and were listening to A LOT of Robert Palmer. Hell, we both wanted to BE Robert Palmer. If we could be Robert Palmer, that would be perfect. Even if we were living with our parents again. Whatever.

To that end, Billy and I had a band and wrote a few Robert Palmeresque songs, which Billy has recently resurrected with his new band The Italians. Here they are. Listen to them lyrics, baby, and consider why I ended up in journalism:

1.Best Dressed Man, about a lecherous cross-dresser. The headline to this post is taken from that song. It may very well adorn my tombstone. This song takes about two minutes to be funny/ worthwhile. That’s both its major problem and its genius.

2.Watching Me, which at the time I thought was pretty innocuous but now realize makes us come across like total stalkers. Every single lyric is rapine. Shudder. Living at our parents’!

3.Solitary Girl, which is about…a solitary girl. Whatever. The best line is “sleevenotes look familiar but the music’s changed.” Billy and I created this character called “Sleevnotes,” a mischievous butler who kept getting into scrapes. Sadly we never wrote the song/ childrens’ book/ screenplay about the butler, which I think would have been awesome. Instead we kept this line in and it always made us laugh on stage in the middle of this serious, wistful song. Again, I suppose that’s what going to private school does to your ability to be sincere.

These songs represent the squandered romantic promise of my early twenties. I am proud I didn’t bring any musical instruments with me to the United States and quit the music business after failing to make a go of it. But I do really like listening to these songs and thinking about what might have been. If only our suits had been a bit more stylish. If only Billy’s throat had been a bit raspier. He should have smoked more…

But then I would never have come to America. And never got married. And never have come to New Orleans. So I guess everything happens for a reason.