The now-58-year-old rose to fame in the 1980s as part of music powerhouse Stock Aitken Waterman’s stable of stars.

He scored a massive number one hit in 1987 with Never Gonna Give You Up – propelling the unassuming 21-year-old into the pop stratosphere in the process.

From platinum-selling albums to global tours, the world was at his feet – and then suddenly, at what seemed like the height of fame, it wasn’t.

At 27, Astley retired himself, with time out of the industry offering him the chance for reflection and therapy – unknowingly helping to set the stage for his triumphant return to music.

The autobiography, entitled ‘Never’ will be released on Thursday, October 10, but before then, he will be ‘in conversation’ with DJ, journalist and writer Dave Haslam at Manchester’s Bridgewater Hall on Monday.

The unmissable evening, followed by a Q&A session, is being presented by Chorley-based independent bookshop ebb & flo, and every ticketholder will receive an exclusive independent bookshop edition of the book.

Tickets cost £44.25. including an exclusive hardback copy with a digitally signed edge, and can be booked via bridgewater-hall.co.uk/whats-on/rick-astley-book-launch-071024/

But before then, the Warrington Guardian has been given an excerpt of the book for readers to enjoy ahead of its release.

Never

At school, I was in a class called HU, with an art teacher called Mrs Hubbard – I think the idea of the class was to round up all the kids who were quite bright, but couldn’t get it together to study – because, say, they were busy bagging up gravel and shifting concrete posts – and try to inspire them into working harder. It didn’t really pan out, at least as far as I was concerned, but it was a better approach to education than some of the other teachers came up with. My maths teacher, who seemed to have thrown in the towel entirely, took me aside and told me that if I was quiet and didn’t behave disruptively, I could go and sit at the back of the class and not do any work.

A couple of my mates in HU were into music: Geoff played the bass, and Phil had a guitar. Phil was a bit like me – one of those kids who was trying his best to pass through the school unnoticed – but he was pretty good on the guitar. His stepdad was a nurse and had a band at weekends, playing the local working men’s club circuit, and he’d taught Phil a bit. My dad didn’t mind them coming to the greenhouse either. So we were a band, of sorts. Geoff, who was a bit cooler than

the rest of us, volunteered to be the lead singer, which was good news: neither Phil nor I wanted to do it, because it would have interfered with our plan of attracting as little attention as possible. We played ‘Mr Tambourine Man’, because that was one of the songs Phil’s stepdad had taught him on the guitar. We did ‘Transmission’ by Joy Division, because Geoff loved Joy Division. And we did ‘So Lonely’ by The Police, which I sang, hidden behind my drum kit. We called ourselves Give Way, because Geoff had stolen a ‘give way’ road sign off its post on his journey home one night. We put it in front of the drum kit.

It was fun, and we might have stayed where we were, jamming in the Greenhouse of Parkside Garden Centre once or twice a week, had the school not announced that there was going to be a Valentine’s Day disco and a band made up of

pupils would be playing at it. There was a kind of audition involved. We applied, and so did another couple of bands. The other bands consisted of the school’s cool kids – the captain of football and rugby, the guys who always got picked first for teams, the guys with the right shoes and the right haircuts, the ones the girls liked. They weren’t bad lads, they didn’t look down on anybody, but in the social ranking of the school they were right at the top, and it was pretty obvious who was going to get the Valentine’s disco gig.

Until we all played at the audition. I’m not really one for blowing my own trumpet, but we absolutely wiped the floor with them. They were all right, but we were loads better. Even the teachers looked surprised – ‘What’s happening? The cool

kids have just been in and then these three have come on and they’re better by a country mile – that can’t be right.’ Then again, we’d kept such a low profile since we started at Selwyn Jones, maybe the teachers looked confused because in fact they didn’t recognize us: ‘Who are this lot? Are they at this school? Hang on a minute – is the drummer that lad that’s supposed to live in a tin hut?’ They were so startled, none of them seemed to notice that we had a clearly stolen road sign propped up in front of the bass drum. We got to be on last at the gig. Headliners!

I was sitting at my drum kit in the greenhouse, practising, when Jayne told my dad. ‘You know Rick’s band’s won a competition and they’re playing at the school dance?’

He looked as confused as the teachers. ‘You what? That bloody racket they make – someone’s actually asked them to play?’

Then he looked at me, or rather at my ancient drum kit. ‘You’re going to go and play a show with that?’

I nodded.

‘It’s a right mess, that.’ Dad frowned.

I agreed.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Come on, we’re going to get you a proper drum kit.’

And that was that. The roll of notes came out of his back pocket and he bought me a brand-new Pearl Maxim drum kit, in silver. Cue astonishment from my bandmates: ‘Your dad’s amazing!’

They were right. Sometimes he really was.