Even life’s oddballs make pals if they take up a hobby

SO farewell, singleminded Keith Sivyer, who passed away leaving behind a record collection of every new release that entered the UK single charts from 1952 until he reached his final groove.

A total of 45,000 records means that as well as The Beatles, ABBA and the Stones, Keith also purchased Joe Dolce’s Shaddap You Face, Madonna’s Hanky Panky and Laurie Anderson’s 1981 hit O Superman, a pretentious exercise in vocoding of interest only to heavy LSD users.

It’s not the quality of Keith’s hobby that impresses, rather it’s his determination. Every week during the analogue decades he went out and bought records, whereas nowadays the internet mutes that kind of dedication.

Thanks to eBay, I could probably assemble a championship collection of My Little Ponies in less than a fortnight, if I put my mind to it. Unfortunately, I lack Keith’s focus, which is why I’m not into collections or chess or trains.

I don’t even have a sport because that would mean having to discuss it afterwards, and TalkSport is solid proof that sport-talk is sometimes boring – unless it is golf, which is always boring. Playing golf can be interesting, although not the bit where you are hacking at the little ball – only the part where you get to drive a cart.

However, I do envy people who take a deep interest in a subject that can absorb decades of their lives. My father loves history, reads hundreds of books about it and is an easy fix at Christmas and birthdays, when he tries not to blanch at the brick-thick volumes that rain down on him.

So my hobby is other people’s hobbies, the more obsessive the better. One of the first people I ever interviewed was a woman who loved Luciano Pavarotti so much that as well owning all his albums, she had walls of posters, a treasured copy of Yes Giorgio – the singers’s dreadful foray into film acting – and a life - sized paper mache Pavarotti at the bottom of her bed, so that Luciano was the last thing she saw at night, and the first thing she had to squeeze past to get to the loo in the morning.

Over the years, I’ve ferreted through other people’s fandoms, collections of fossils, DVDs, airsick bags, postcards and toilet lid art ON my way to visiting a pal in the South Side of Glasgow, I noticed that the tattoo parlour on his street has been joined by a tattoo removal clinic four doors down. If they had a pub at the top of the road, a whole body art adventure could be nutshelled in one street block (this is a real thing, although you may query the hygiene). But my current favourite centres on an internet forum where men, and some women, gather to discuss Second World War leather jackets with an expertise that goes beyond types of hide.

THEY are on first-name terms with people who make them and when one of them buys a jacket, they take pictures of themselves from all angles and post these online for strangers to look at. Lady Gaga in her meat dress gets less intense scrutiny.

There are heated debates about zips, ageing processes and stitches per inch. One thread concluded with a user being banned for life after going apocalyptic about pocket positions, and I adored one lengthy exchange on how best to smuggle the umpteenth purchase past watchful spouses.

Is this a bit mad? Possibly, but they seem delighted and invigorated by their hobby, cheer each other on, and forge firm friendships. That’s better than collecting dust.