YOU have to appreciate that when God created Adam and Eve, he was in a bit of a rush.

With so much to make from scratch and a fairly strict deadline looming, you can excuse Him for papering over some of the cracks in the subtleties of the male and female psyche, especially after concentrating so much attention on the important physical bits.

Back then, when snakes and fruit dominated the battle of the sexes, He put little or no thought into musical taste.

If He had, I would not be sporting several bruises on my body today.

Fast forward to the modern day and I have finally discovered I can download my favourite music on to my mobile phone.

I have also discovered that some of my favourite songs can be utilised as ringtones for calls, messages and morning alarms.

Granted, my colleagues are now thoroughly fed up with hearing Bruce Springsteen’s gargantuan rock classic Born To Run at full volume when someone calls me in the newsroom or meetings.

It even has to be said that John Waite’s touching Missing You – one of ‘our songs’ through our 26-year relationship – is starting to irritate my wife every morning it wakes us from our slumbers.

But it’s the late, great John Bonham who has brought us to the point where divorce has become a distinct possibility.

Larger-than-life rock hedonist John was the drummer of mighty rock gods Led Zeppelin, a man whose drink and drug-fuelled excesses are as legendary as the band itself.

One of John’s finest moments behind the kit was the opening bars of When The Levee Breaks from Led Zep’s seminal 4th album, when Bonham sounds like he hates his drums so much he wants to beat them to a bloody pulp.

Unfortunately, this was the tone heralding a message to my phone the night my wife slumbered peacefully in our bed as a colleague decided he would send his new mobile number to me at some ridiculous time of the evening (ie after 9.30 pm).

“Thump, thumpa, thump, thumpa” went John on the drums.

“Thump, thumpa, thump, thumpa” went my wife on my thigh, also throwing the phone at me in abject rage.

I could have got away with it had the vagaries of mobile phone technology not sent the ruddy message three more times.

“Thump, thumpa, thump, thumpa” went John on drums.

“Thump, thumpa, thump, thumpa” went my wife on various other parts of my body.

In the morning, I surveyed the damage. It was not pretty.

And next time you send me a message, be assured that Dean Martin has taken over from Mr Bonham...