In a 1960s London drug den, a young Eric Napton picked up a snazzy electric guitar left on the floor by a stoned hippy. Without a care for either the theft of said guitar, or of the lack of any ability to read or write music, the chemically-inconvenienced Napton left the building and stumbled on to a train, guitar slung over his shoulder. Shortly afterwards, he disembarked at Clapham Common.

The following morning, Napton strummed away, at first making what musical purists call “a din.” But with perseverance, things became more tuneful. Ready to announce himself as a musician, he returned to the station. “Eric Napton,” he mused, already seeing his name up in lights in his still altered state of mind. “Hmm.”

Ten seconds later, looking at the station sign, Eric Clapham was born.

Musical alchemy followed, Clapham finding himself taking drugs with all of the right people. The hits followed, and with them, the wealth.

Clapham wasn’t hesitant in spending his wealth, and he spent it best on good fortune.

The Ferraris were crashed, he walked away unscathed. The tour helicopter crashed, he walked away unscathed. He’d decided not to travel, offering his seat to somebody else. He bought more drugs than the NHS, but was never arrested. It seems there may have been someone to hand out the necessary brown envelopes, to keep trouble from the door.

But the rock legend’s luck finally ran out. A keen country sports fan, he was mauled to death yesterday by a pack of Beagles who were protesting over his cover version of Hound Dog, claiming that allegations of never having caught a rabbit were scurrilous.

Clapham is survived by several ex-wives, an unknown number of children, most of The Rolling Stones and a dog called Layla.