Andy Richardson: It's taken me 25 years to find out what love is

At least, I told her it was love. She thought I was being mucky while I should have been delivering papers. And customers on Farmer Way often wondered why their evening paper didn't arrive until 5pm.

Oh well, all's fair in love and paper delivery. Especially when you're friends with a girl called Louise.

She later objected to something I said, slapped me around the face during an economics lesson and suddenly, the papers were delivered at 4pm. No more delays, no more rumpled sofas. Such are the lives of 14-year-old kids from Tipton. At least, they were in my day.

I experienced love with a girl called Sarah. Her father didn't like me. And, if I'd been Sarah's father, I probably wouldn't have liked me either. She was stunning and our passion burned for two long, smouldering years.

Eventually, it came to an end. I'd taken a fancy to girl I liked in the office and that put paid to Sarah. Sarah was posh. She later married a man called Martin and her father booked a horse and carriage to take her to the church. I'm pretty sure he's the only man from West Brom ever to have done so.

Round there, horses are used only for: a) Illegal Sunday morning trotting races on the road, b) to transport gangsters to the Heath Lane Cemetery and, c) to bulk out burgers.

Sarah's dad thought differently. His daughter was the apple of his eye, the objection of his affections and nothing was too much trouble. The carriage arrived promptly and she ascended like some latter day Princess Diana, a vision in lace and silk.

The horse made it as far as the main road when, without warning, a police car sped past, blue lights flashing and siren wailing.

It proved too much for the preened and pampered horse, which suffered a heart attack and died on the spot. Don't laugh. It's true. You can't make this stuff up. It made a story in the Star. And, as far as I know, Sarah didn't get to the church on time.

After that, I thought love was a challenge called A to Z, work your way through the alphabet. But I was wrong. There are hardly any ladies whose names begin with the letter X, so that game doesn't work. You try finding a Xandria, Xanthe or a Xena in Tipton, and see how far that gets you.

It took me about 25 years to answer the question that Howard Jones asked in his number two hit of 1983: namely, What Is Love?

Love is driving around the roads of Shropshire, tears streaming down your face, realising you've got it wrong and taking responsibility for putting it right. Love is being humble and kind. Love is making sacrifices so that other people are happy. Love is saying no to the trip to Rwanda to look at mountain gorillas because you'd rather watch the day-by-day development of your son, or because you're unwilling to miss the selfless smile of the woman who means more to you than anything else on earth.

But love is much more than that. It's paying £10 for a £5 rose on Valentine's Day. It's buying Eau De Britney at £40 a bottle to keep the better half happy. It's seeing the artistry in an offspring's unwatchable school play. It's listening to Mariah Carey when you could be playing Frank Sinatra.

Actually, if you think about it, love's pretty good. Frank or Mariah – Ol' Blue Eyes or Sweet Mrs Collar And Cuffs. Damn it. I'm with the blonde. Bring on the love.