It may not be unusual to be loved by anyone, or to have fun with anyone, or, indeed, to be mad, or even sad, with anyone. But it is, frankly, unusual for a son of the Rhondda Valley whose father worked down the pit to make it up the red carpet at Buckingham Palace and receive a shoulder-tap from a sword-wielding, approving monarch.

Sir Tom Jones is in his fifth decade of entertaining audiences with an act that retains all the raw power with which it began in the 1960s. An early dose of TB rescued him from a life covered in coal dust. And it was his voice that caught the attention of a music scout tipped off that the frontman of Tommy Scott and the Senators sounded a bit special. It was not just one of those run-of-the-mill deep, rich, euphonic, mellifluous Welsh voices. It was spellbinding. He inherited it from his shy father. Thanks to his brassy mother, young Tom was not afraid to use it. After receiving a wider circulation than the clubs of South Wales could hope to offer, it was quickly recognised as The Voice.

Mention of Sir Tom requires reference to his trademark hip-swivel. Not for nothing was Elvis an admirer of his technique. The mountains of ladies’ underwear thrown on stage are an inescapable part of the Jones story. No subsequent performer has boasted quite the concentration of testosterone. But it is his extraordinary, belting and, frankly, unusual voice for which he will be best remembered, allowing him to reinvent himself successfully from Vegas kitsch into post-Britpop cool. But after more than 40 years’ full-thrust stage performances, it was remarkable that his knees allowed him to rise after receiving his honour.