Nothing cures sadness like alcohol, and that’s why my dad needs to stop for some on the way home. If only he would pay attention to my plaintive texts.

It’s not just for me, my fellow inebriates, it’s for my mum. Davy Jones of The Monkees died today of a heart attack at his home in Florida. This is depressing enough, reminding my mum as it does of both his age and hers, but it’s worse because my mum spent her pre-teen years fawning over Davy Jones and fantasizing about a romance with him in her oh-so-distant adult life. Even when she occasionally took a rest from Davy to fantasize about Peter Tork, Davy was mostly it for my mum.

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Being a young bear, I missed The Monkees and didn’t get to experience Davy’s moves on a crappy rabbit-eared TV. I wasn’t there when my mum made such a compelling case to her brother about how dreamy Davy was that her brother conjured up an imaginary friend named Davy Jones and professed his love for him at the dinner table, weirding the whole family out. I’d never even heard him sing Daydream Believer until today, people.

And that’s why I’m guessing my mother is devastated by Davy Jones’s death today. She must be reeling, bereft, inconsolable, abject. Which calls for wine.

So Dad, if you’re reading this, please go and buy some wine. Your woman is suffering and you need to remind her that you’re the main man in her life now.