sigh

and I'd invite Randy Newman, Keith Richards and Kate Bush.

...is that the rock stars would insist on knowing who the other guests were going to be and would veto anyone who might get in their light. Most rock stars, like most stars of any kind, have immense egos and don't like engaging in any conversation that isn't about them.

...but I'd definitely invite Nick Lowe and Kevin Coster. Let's get this thing sorted out once and for all.

Let's go to Simpson's and tuck into some nicely pink roast beef with Chrissie, Morrissey and Mr Ellen.

Definitely Tom Waits and Keith Richards; they wouldn't need introducing. My wild card guest would be David Lee Roth. I'm not a fan of Van Halen or Roth's music; I'm basing my invitation purely on an interview Danny Baker did with Roth a few years ago, in which he revealed himself to be an amazingly entertaining raconteur (Baker called it his best ever interview). I remember at one point Roth said to Danny "You're giving me the sort of look a parrot gives a ringing telephone".

I used to like the NME "Pop Summit" feature in which they'd invite three interesting musicians to chat together in a pub. The classic one was Mark E Smith, Shane MacGowan and Nick Cave (who had literally just walked out of rehab): http://tinyurl.com/3ddgx2
I can remember a later one that involved Paul Heaton, but other good ones have faded in my memory.

I'd like to go round Legoland with Sean Connery and then afterwards we'd go for a lamb lunch in the center of Windsor.

As David indicated above, it would all be about the egos. I suspect such an evening would be immensely boring. You wouldn't hear anything gossip wise that might cast the individuals in a bad light and non music topics discussed aren't likely to be at a level much beyond tabloid headlines. A friend once said that Sting had the problem of being a reasonably intelligent man in a world of morons and consequently he got the impression he was an intellectual giant.
I think I'd rather select my guests from contributors to this forum which would probably make for a much more stimulating evening.

I have decided to host a themed evening that will celebrate those figures in the music industry who have overcome great hardship in their lives. The guest list will be as follows:

AC's Seth Putnam

In 2004, Putnam overdosed on a combination of alcohol, crack, heroin, and a two month supply of sleeping pills which, rather fittingly, placed him in a two month coma. Upon waking he could barely walk and was initially thought by his doctors to be mentally retarded.

Ever the professional and aware that the show must go on whatever the cost, Putnam has vowed to continue playing You're In A Coma - a song that mocks the perennially unconscious for their inability to die or control their bodily functions. I am not sure whether he will fill awkward silences or create them. None the less, he shall sit at my right hand, on the rationale that it will harder for him to punch me in the face than if he were seated opposite.

Yazz

With her lanky frame and bleached blonde cru cut, Yazz looked like she had travelled back in time from the early 21st century to immerse herself in the music scene of 1988. Her big hit The Only Way Is Up felt like a manifesto - an anthemic statement of intent, predating D:Ream's Things Can Only Get Better by five years.

Sadly Yazz's self-forecast rise to fame never happened. A cursory inspection of her UK chart positions reveals a progressive downward trend, while the song titles spoke of an ebbing optimism. Her final two ‘hits' were titled Never Can Say Goodbye (#61), followed a year later by Abandon Me (#79).

It was a sad end to the career of a woman who had advised a generation crushed beneath the jackboot of Thatcherism to "stand up for your love rights."

Kula Shaker's Crispian Mills

Mills hailed from a posh background, affected a starry-eyed, gap year mysticism and had a preponderance for making bold, unqualified statements on controversial subjects: - Three traits that were guaranteed to stir-up the piranha shoal mentality of the weekly music press, whose collective, razor-sharp wit could occasionally strip a career to the bone in months.

Tonight as he shivers in the tepid afterglow of his former success, I offer Mills a few hours sanctuary from the relentless pursuit of the NME's Nazi hunters.