Steve Miller admitted on Monday, that despite once being called the space cowboy he had never been called the gangster of love.

Mostly he was called Maurice – a middle-name he inherited from his great grandfather on his mother’s side.

By day I braved the ice-strewn, mountainous seas of the Bering Strait, trawling the depths in search of the slippery and highly elusive cock-fish. The pittance I earned could be tripled in port at Vladivostok or Petropavlovsk with just half a dozen of these sublime creatures of the deep.

And by night, well, by night I played chess with Vladimir – a one-eyed salt-dog who stank of shit and stale tobacco. We drank potato-vodka from a tin, shared a battered corn pipe and told tales of far-away women and loose ports. It wasn’t until the next day amid the haze of a potato-vodka hangover you could see, that we’d realize we should have been talking about loose women and far-away ports. That potato-vodka is some fucked up shit man!

If that was me in that video I’d live off the glory for the rest of my life. I’d probably sit in a pub near a surf beach and get a flat-screen tele made that could hang around my neck and I’d loop that video indefinitely. Underneath the screen on my t-shirt it would say, “that’s me in that video” with an arrow pointing to the video. I’d drink rum and smile and be very happy that I was alive.

That’s what I’d do if that was me in that video.