“What can I tell ya? I’ve been readin’ about this Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall Of Fame thing, which is this deal they have every year where a buncha longhairs get given a gong for doin’ what they already get paid for. Everybody puts away the spandex pants, dresses up like Cary Grant for the night and tells each other how frickin’ great they are.

“I also see that the whole shebang’s gonna happen at the fancy Waldorf-Astoria, not a million miles away from the humble four-storey brownstone where Dr Willy dispenses his sage advice to the emotionally bewildered on a daily basis. Pretty nice hotel, although I gotta say my last visit wasn’t exactly a Kodak moment. Myself and the lovely Bernice were invited to watch her cousin Ruthie’s boy Herschell get hitched to some fella called Beauregard that he met at wig-making school. Now, you gotta understand that I’m no homophobe – can’t afford to be in my business, ’cause the gays got the green and a lot of ‘em have what I like to call hiccups in the head (not strictly a medical term, but I didn’t want to blind you with science). And although Bernice says she’d never been so embarrassed in her life, I thought I asked a perfectly valid question: First dance at the reception, which of the guys was gonna lead?

“But, I digress…

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for acknowledging the achievements of the truly talented. I’m not ashamed to admit that I wept like a baby when they gave Streisand the Oscar. But these rock ‘n’ roll people, I don’t know so well, so I thought I’d do me some research. Luckily, Ramona my PA has a 12-year-old kid who got to work with this downloading doohickey of his and ‘burned’ me some of the inductees’ music onto a coupla discs. As a psychiatrist, though, I gotta say that I find it interesting that all this terminology (‘burn’, ‘rip’) is so aggressive and violent. These people could use a good shrink.

“First up, we got Grandmaster Flash And The Furious Five. Been playin’ their ‘song’ The Message a lot: ‘It’s like a jungle, sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from goin’ under’. Boy, if I had a nickel for every time someone said that on my couch… Hey, what am I talkin’ about? I get 300 clams an hour every time someone says that on my couch! This is a classic example of precarious mental balance being exacerbated by environment, a scenario I’m all too familiar with, although my high-fallutin’ clientele rarely get unhinged by broken glass and folks urinatin’ on the sidewalk. It’s more usually the fact that the 14th hole is directly below the Newark flight path and it’s playing havoc with their swing.

“I understand the Grandmaster is a major influence in his field, and that’s fine by me, even though it’s not my ‘bag’. Just ’cause he’s yet to be given a month’s residency at the Pinecones Leisure Retreat in the Catskills doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be honoured. Okay, who’s next…?

“REM, I’ve hearda these boys before. They’re the ones with the guitar player who likes wine but hates flight attendants, if I’m not mistaken. They also got that bass player with the glasses, who looks uncannily like Ruthie’s boy Herschell. I seen that singer before, too. Mostly on the news moanin’ about injustice all the time. Huh, Streisand gettin’ stiffed for a second Oscar for The Way We Were – now that’s injustice.

“Don’t know what the hell he’s singin’ about most of the time, though. He started shoutin’ somethin’ about Leonard Bernstein and Lenny Bruce in the middle of one song. Never cared for Mr Bruce, he was all ‘cocksucker’ this and ‘cocksucker’ that when I saw him in the 60s. Fine for a stag show, maybe, but Bernice turned crimson and we had to leave. I don’t mind the REM, sometimes they sound like Dylan when he went all Judas. So, yeah, I’ll let that one go, too. Next?

“The Ronettes I remember well, mainly because Herschell used to obsess over their high hair when he was just a boy. Guess his future path was kinda mapped out for him then and there. That singer Veronica’s still around doin’ stuff, I’m led to believe, so I suppose she deserves a Hall Of Fame place. Mind you, she’s probably just happy that she’s not been shot yet. That ex-hubby of hers is a bit of a fruit-and-nut assortment, to use yet another medical expression.

“Next up on my list is Patti Smith, and I have to confess that I skipped over one of the tracks Ramona’s boy burned for me. Piss Factory – what the hell is that all about? What kinda gal makes a record called Piss Factory? I Googled this dame and discovered that she’s some sorta poet. Well, she ain’t in Willy’s extensive oak-lined library, I can tell ya that. Did Emily Dickinson ever feel the urge to write about piss? I think not! Okay, so Patti’s supposed to be sardonic and insightful, I get that, but to me she’s just Dorothy Parker with a potty mouth. Not impressed. Who’s last?

“Van Halen. Some sorta confusion with this bunch, as nobody seems to know who the singer is. Well, Willy’s been listenin’ to a couple of these guys bawling, and I can honestly say that the band would be better off if they stuck to the instrumentals. Never did Lawrence Welk any harm. Eddie the guitar player is supposed be a ‘rock god’, whatever that is. Does he have a church? No. And some big dome out by the airport does not constitute a place of worship, in my book. David Lee Roth is the guy I remember from MTV many years ago, which I tuned into by mistake after being duped by Dr Leo Beckerstein, the dentist across the hall. Told me the station’s full name was Mazel Tov Vision. Very funny, Leo, ya sadistic quack.

“Roth is a bit of a clown, to my mind, he’s got that permanent ‘look at me, I’m wonderful’ grin on his face, but he’s just a cartoon with split ends, as far as I can see. Nah, the Van Halens of this world belong in a hall of shame. Whatever happened to melody? That’s all I wanna know.

“I don’t think I’ll be watching the induction ceremony on the tube, reckon I’ll take Bernice for a steak dinner that night. There’s a lovely little place not far from here, with nothing but Pat Boone and Connie Francis on the jukebox – the only kind of hall of fame you’ll find me walking down.

“That’s the way Willy sees it. Our time is up for today.”

“What can I tell ya? It’s unforgivable. No, really, it is. Have you seen that commercial? My God, what’s wrong with that guy? There he is, moody-looking fella, surrounded by women with less clothing than my own granddaughters should wear at birth, and he keeps askin’ ‘Do ya love me? Do ya love me?’. Just to sell some stinky water. Yeah, that’s right – it’s Unforgivable.

“‘Do ya love me? Do ya love me?’ Sweet Fancy Moses, guy, scratch a different record! Dr Willy’s got a question of his own: Who the hell are ya? It says Sean John on the scent bottle – Bernice tells me ‘scent’ is what it’s called these days, although I’ve always associated that word with the spray from a skunk’s ass. Pepe Le Pew was a big cartoon in my day.

“But, I digress…

“This Sean John guy on the TV kinda looks like that P-Diddy fella. Used to be Puffy, I’m told. But he also calls himself Coombs, at least when he has to go to court, which appears to be more often than most respectable folk deem necessary. Now, usually Dr Willy has no problem dealin’ with multiple personalities – ‘specially when he can get away with billin’ two of ‘em for the same session – but Sean John is a bigger plate of spaghetti. I think I detect a God complex, delusions of grandeur, childhood abandonment compensatory and self-denial superiority issues. Basically, the kind of patient that has less reputable doctors than the Mandelbaums of this world recommending prolonged therapy, while sneaking a peak at next spring’s yacht catalogue.

“Lemme tell ya, I thought that narcissistic carny David Blaine was up his own ass before I caught Sean John lovin’ himself on the tube. But in the interests of research, I took a quick whiff of Unforgivable, and it is like nothing else I have ever subjected my nose to in 70-odd years of inhalin’. Actually, that’s not strictly true. When I was a boy in the old neighbourhood I remember my pop playing pinochle with a pawnbroker, and he kinda smelled like that when he was cleanin’ silver. He always had the good sense to wear thick gloves, though, he sure as hell didn’t dab it on his neck, ferchrissake.

“But, hey! This Sean guy ain’t an isolated case. J-Lo’s got one called Glow (probably somethin’ pretty strong to cloak the stench of that disastrous old fragrance of hers, Afflecktion), Britney’s got somethin’ called Curious – and no, doll, I ain’t. Then there’s that gal from the show about the women who like to do it between extended bouts of shoe-shoppin’…, what’s her name…? Sarah Parker Fountain Pen, somethin’ like that. She’s hawkin’ something called Lovely. Now, Willy ain’t no misogynist, can’t afford to be in my line o’ work ’cause crazy chicks got checkbooks too, but I can’t get round the irony of a perfume called Lovely bein’ promoted by a woman with all the feminine allure of the Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

“Not that any of this is a new phenomenon, y’understand. In the 1930s, Schiaparelli designed a bottle to look like Mae West’s figure. In the 1950s, Givenchy created a scent for Audrey Hepburn. In the early 1980s, Joan Collins and Linda Evans promoted fragrances linked to that dumb show they were on. And in 1987, Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds became the most successful celebrity smell of all time, with more than $1 billion in sales. I told ya, Willy does his research. I ain’t just some old guy mouthin’ off over nothin’.

“But think twice before ya do yer Christmas shoppin’. Think twice before bustin’ a wallet for a product which, ounce for ounce, could set you back more than an eight-ball. Whaddeva ya do, don’t buy yer loved one scent AND an eight-ball. They won’t be able to smell the first after they’ve worked their way through half of the second.

“For the record, I have never bought the lovely Bernice beautifyin’ doohickies, but she’s been smellin’ the same sweet way since we first hooked up in ’57. Don’t think anyone famous is makin’ money out of it, but if they were it would probably be called somethin’ like Calamity… By Doris Day. Men’s fragrances from the period, I dunno. Closet… By Montgomery Clift? Heh, heh, heh – look, everybody, Willy’s made himself laugh!

“Nah, the way you wanna smell is somethin’ you gotta nail for yerself, so I kinda take a different route when pickin’ up a gift for Bernice. I think this year it’s gonna be a set of drill bits. I’ll put ‘em in one o’ those nice blue Tiffany boxes, though. I’ve always been a romantic fella.

“That’s the way Willy sees it. Our time is up for today.”

“What can I tell ya? To say there’s been some friction between Paul and Heather ain’t givin’ anybody a scoop. This is news of no surprise, much in the same way that everybody already knows that east is east, that west is west, and that the Kennedys have funeral caterers on speed-dial.

“But in my line of work, I gotta look at the bigger picture, the emotional fallout of a love-gone-wrong – not just the tittle-tattle in those supermarket sin sheets millions of us pretend not to read. ‘What does he know?’, I hear some of you ask. Yeah? Well, let me tell ya somethin’ about Willy The Shrink; I been nosin’ around inside noggins for 48 years now, and I’m pretty damn good at it. I ain’t lyin’, and neither are those 27 certificates on a wall behind my head, or a house in the Hamptons the size of the Hoover Dam. A whole lotta green don’t tell no tall tales.

“But, I digress…

“Let’s consider Paul first, a guy who happily tucked into 30 years’ worth of meat-free cookin’ from the ever-lovin’ Linda, only to have a whole different kind of nut cutlet leave a bad taste in his mouth. Some say he shoulda stopped on his own after he was widowed, like there’s only one true love for any of us – and to believe it’s gonna happen again is like believin’ in the Easter Bunny, or that Ashlee Simpson’s gonna hit a right note someday soon.

“But, hey, cut the guy some slack! He gave us ‘Yesterday’, he gave us ‘The Long And Winding Road’. He’s an incurable romantic. Not all the time, I grant you – I don’t recall any newyleds choosing ‘Helter Skelter’ for their first dance. But by and large he’s had faith in the power of love since the get-go, and this has been his problem. At the risk of confusing you with psycho-analytical jargon, I gotta say that the dude’s a schmuck when it comes to the ladies. You get yourself one good one like he did, then that’s when ya stop. There’s no headin’ back to the table for a second hand at the Casino Of The Heart. The house always wins.

“(For the record, Dr Willy’s been with the lovely Bernice since ‘57 and there’s never been a cross word between us, as long as ya don’t count the mah jong incident of ‘82)

“And as for Heather, well she’s been gettin’ a bum rap since Day One. I saw it comin’, but then I’m a professional. The moment I set eyes on that gal it immediately reminded of a learned passage written by the eminent Dr Carl Jung, about the inevitable clash between the introvert and the extrovert. I can’t find the book right now, but what he said was somethin’ along the lines of ‘Danger, Will Robinson!’.

“Heather’s lust for attention manifested itself in many ways even before she hooked up with Paul. She did the modelling thing, she did the charity mouthpiece thing – hell, she even waved her leg at Larry King, ferchrissake! That’s not Paul; he’s happy at home in a pair of Circle K slacks, milking the odd goat.

“The big hoo-hah that the press honed in on was Paul changin’ the locks of the London house – significant on so many subconscious levels, you don’t need a big brain kahuna like Dr Willy to point that out to ya. Equally significant is the press suggestion that Heather stole three bottles of cleaning products from the house. Well, Heather, honey, take it from a guy who can see beneath your skull, whatever happens in the short term you’re gonna clean up in the long term – whether or not you’re already hoarding Toilet Duck bought from the royalties of ‘Let It Be’.

“Yeah, that’s right, Dr Willy’s goin’ straight to the question of the dough. It’s hard for normal folk to even grasp the concept of the cash involved in this divorce settlement. I read somewhere that Paul made somethin’ like 350 million last year alone – huh, Dr Willy’s lucky if he makes that in FIVE years!

“But how much of that should Heather be entitled to? Who can say? Not me. But the vulgarity of wealth has a tendency to brush off on both those who already have it and those who crave it, to the point where Heather is now despised among Beatle fans more than any other previous Fab Four spouse. It’s true. Suddenly, Yoko’s got a kind of Mother Teresa glow about her.

“My professional advice to both of ‘em is this: Whaddaya doin’, you crazy Limeys? Take a step back, think about how to proceed with dignity and grace. Heather, tread carefully before you sully the name of a living legend. Paul, meet the gal halfway and settle this whole mess so that you can both walk away with your self-respect intact – and, if you got any time left over, how about making a solo record that doesn’t suck?

“I’ve never been the kinda doc who liberally doles out unnecessary prescriptions like they were American Idol record deals, but you could both do with some kinda calming capsule or two. Nothing specific springs to mind, but any of those with a ‘q’, ‘x’ or ‘z’ in their name – rule of thumb: never pop a pill unless it’s worth at least 43 points in Scrabble.

“That’s the way Willy sees it. Our time is up for today.”