Of Kylie, Bono and Noel . . .

shares his own musings on music, mayhem and much more . . .

In the words of Mick and Keef; please allow me to introduce myself. Our erstwhile colleague, the totemic Black Country uberlord Jonn Penney – he of Ned's Atomic Dustbin fame – has departed these shores with goodbye cakes and a copy of his favourite periodical: Indie Times.

His Penneyscope has been carefully packed in bubble wrap and JP faithfully promises that it will resurface from time to time. We hope it does, the Penneyscope was sufficiently popular to make it onto Wikipedia, no less.

Ticket Towers won't be the same without our much-loved, floppy-fringed singer. We shall miss his yellow neckerchiefs, polka dot galoshes and tales of rubbing shoulders with Blur, Manic Street Preachers and other big guns from the land of pop.

Being summoned from the bench to take his place is. . . wait for it (cue drum roll) – a former Express & Star paperboy. Yes, praise be for the virtues of those who are in it for the long haul. While our last columnist sold gazillions of T-shirts, starred on Top of the Pops, headlined stages at Glastonbury and Reading and sold his songs to Xbox; the new incumbent cut his teeth on the mean streets of Farmer Way, Elizabeth Walk and Andrew Road. The snow was a foot deep, but the papers were still delivered on time.

The arrival of Penney prompted a deluge of letters from Ned's fans: I expect no similar rewards – although if former pupils of Willingsworth High fancy a pint? No, on second thoughts, let's move on.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "So Penney took us backstage at Reading and into the Green Room of Top of the Pops – what the heck are you going to do? Take us behind the counter of R Ash and sons, newsagent? Gah. I'll stop reading now".

Fear not. Much as Mr Ash might enjoy the publicity – and, that's not an invented name, for the doubters among you – I won't be regaling you with tales of newspaper delivery ever again. Instead, like my esteemed predecessor, I'll occasionally take you behind the velveteen curtain that denotes 'back stage'.

At various times, I'll regale you with tales of being in a tent with Kylie (true), choking on Bono's cigar smoke (true), buttonholing Noel Gallagher at The Brits (true) asking Prince to take off his shades as part of a 'hangover check' (true) and watching the near-comatose bodies of drug-addled rock stars being piled high in a dressing room of a Birmingham venue (true).

Richardson's Radar will also endeavour to appeal equally to fans of film and theatre, literature and food. I'll offer rambunctious tales of double Oscar winners Kevin Spacey and Daniel Day-Lewis (both true – and, boy, that Spacey fella has a mouth like a sewer). There'll also be occasional stories from the world of literature (Colin Montgomery take note – I know what really happened, although I'm sworn to silence). There may also be tales from the kitchens of some of our better-known restaurants, although I suspect many chefs would rather they weren't told.

But first, it's time to ruminate on the intoxicating and eclectic line-up of live entertainment planned for the coming week. And what a peculiar week it is: from Clooney to Calendar Girls, from Oakenfold to Cornwell, from Boyz II Men to Cafe India.

Aah, I've fallen into the trap that all good columnists learn to avoid before picking up their Mont Blanc to pen their first column. Don't run out of space . . .

Get in touch: Tweet me @andyrichardson1