Handsome, windswept, erudite, and genius are just some of the words you might find in a dictionary. It's not every day you would find them in a writer's biog, and sadly, today is not that day.

Part man, part machine the boy Shepherd was irreversibly merged with an Acorn Electron. The only thing that could reach him was music. His parents offered initial encouragement, offering up their Beatles and Rolling Stones collections, as well as an upgrade to a BBC Micro B. This great introduction to music was hindered one Christmas when Sam was presented with the Now That's What I Call Music 4 Album - the one with Limahl on it. For many years, pop music became insufferable (Julian Lennon and Too Late for Goodbyes can do that to a young mind), and as a result he immersed himself in the darker side of the musical spectrum. Bands with names like Autopsy and Cryptic Slaughter could be heard emanating from his room - as his neighbours would often tell him while throwing their shoes at his window.

After a brush with Dinosaur Jr, and Parliament things changed and the world of music opened up. There was so much to hear, so much to experience, and most importantly so much to buy. Now, constantly living on a musically imposed breadline, Sam has to write reviews and photograph gigs to fund and supplement his habit for over five years. Luckily a degree in English, a Masters in Music, and his own Photography Company has meant that he has been able to contribute at a reasonable level. Unlike the infinite number of chimps on their typewriters that he has under his stairs - they seem content writing letters of disgust to the Daily Mail.