THERE'S a recurring conversation among certain old codgers at the Evening News that always runs along the same lines.

It usually starts like this. Sports editor Paul Ricketts will start whistling or attempting to, anyway a tune by an instrumental beat combo from many years ago. This flurry of fluting notes will soon die away and then he will boom across the desk: Hey, John what was that one by the Shadows?

The number's always the same, therefore the answer never varies. Guitar Tango, Paul. Released July, 1962. The single was the follow-up to Wonderful Land which had been a corking platter by the Shads in the February of that year. The flipside was What A Lovely Tune... and if I can remember who was Jet Harris' replacement on bass, then I will die a happy man.

Half a mo' it was Brian Licorice Locking, says . Wish granted.

During the next minute or so, Paul and yours truly will talk about the good old days when pop singles had melodies all self-respecting pop-pickers would be able to whistle before David Jacobs could say Juke Box Jury.

But it's downhill from then on as the debate takes its predictable turn for the worse as our two Alf Garnetts of rock tragically warm to the theme. But not before the discussion veers out of control as it lurches from the Shads to Chris Montez and then exits somewhere between the Fourmost and the Migil Five.

I'm trying to find a word stronger than sad to convey to you, dear reader, the poignancy of such debates, but must admit that for once, words forsake me.

However, for all that, Cliff Richard's backing group most certainly occupies a seat at the top table of popular music history. Imagine, if you will, how different popular culture would have been had Newcastle-born Brian Rankin not reinvented himself as Hank Marvin.

For a start, there would have been no youths strutting in front of mirrors clutching tennis rackets. The Harry Enfield gag based around Mark Knopfler's excesses was, undeniably, a joke waiting to write itself. But there was something else for Hank also legitimised the notion originally conceived by Buddy Holly that wearing glasses on stage was, hey, all right.

This was of incalculable significance to an entire generation of young men who were both musically gifted and myopic at the same time. I remember there was a group at my old school called Penumbra clever stuff, meaning shadow of a shadow and this was run by an acne-encrusted swot with specs that could have doubled for lenses at the Royal Observatory.

When it came to the end-of-term dance, not one of the specially-imported-for-the-occasion High School girls standing by the stage were staring lovingly into the eyes of the chief twanger. Why? Well, strange to relate, it was nothing to do with the fact that none of them fancied the little geek.

No! There wasn't room for the girlies for all the lads were down at the front trying to follow the fingerwork of our four-eyed fiend of the fretboard, hoping to commit some of his dexterity to memory.

Meanwhile, 60 miles away in Worcester, these scenes must have been duplicated a thousand times as countless knights of the silver strings strode the stage of the Malvern Winter Gardens or the local church hall.

Imagine how they must have dreamed of being the super cool His Royal Highness The King Of Reverb, whose single-note trademark style was now pouring out of every Dansette and transistor in the land.

Poor Bruce Welch must have eaten his heart out, condemned to play rhythm gooseberry while Hank wooed the world with his dulcet tremelo-arm vibrato.

One such adoring youth was in all likelihood a Worcester lad by the name of Phil Evans, then living in the Arboretum, Worcester. The last time I heard, Phil was a resident of Upton-upon-Severn, but I used to know him quite well when he lived in the city.

Phil used to hang about on the local music scene and was extremely well-respected among Worcester's pluckers, blowers and thumpers. And it wasn't just that he was pretty nifty generally on the old gitfiddle. No, there was something extra for he possessed a talent that left many another player standing.

He was, by far, the best Hank Marvin clone I've ever seen, before or since. Playing a cheap old Watkins-Rapier with a warp worse than the bend in the Forth Bridge, here was a man who could peel wallpaper with his Apache or Geronimo... could coax the most reluctant dancer on to the floor with The Rise And Fall Of Flingel Bunt... and bring back a million memories with his searing rendition of Dance On.

Yes, Phil, this is a number etched forever in the walls of a thousand dancehalls and picture houses. If it is true that a sound cannot die, and must continue to reverberate into infinity, then this tune should perhaps be the first to be extracted from the brickwork once we have perfected the technology.

Dance On. No, no, wait, it was Foot Tapper. In the days when cinemas filled the space between films with the latest pop hits, this number was always the cue for me and my Beatle-booted mate Micky Lucas to wobble down to the front seats in order to chat up any girls whose eyes might light up at the idea of rubbing sebaceously-challenged faces with two likely lads.

Between opening drum beat to final chord, the operation was completed with military precision. Single out a couple of targets, move into seats behind, proffer packet of Players Gold Leaf, light said ciggies, but ensuring you didn't ignite the beehive hairdo of the one on the left, vault over seats... and then enthral with witty conversation and erudition.

Such as: Hi, I'm John, this is my mate Mick. Fancy a bag of chips afterwards?. Hey, did anybody ever tell you you're a dead-ringer for Ursula Andress? You could be a model with your looks...

Stop, stop. Once again my reputation as an upright pillar of society will have taken another knock as File readers choke on the thought of their favourite scribbler being anything less than the personification of respectability.

But... I have this feeling that Hank would understand. For the man who supplied the opening riff to The Young Ones is, incredibly, 60, on November 28, this year. And, despite the passage of the years, there is an undeniable immortality about that guy with the cheesy grin and the horn rim specs.

So, Hank, even though it's a little early, allow me be the first to wish you a happy birthday. In fact, you must make sure it's a right old Shindig...