If Doc Brown’s vision ever becomes a reality, I would travel back to Hastings Woolworths, circa 1977. Not for nostalgic purposes, or for the delights of the pic'n'mix, but as a purely money making venture. I remember it vividly: gawping at an immense display of brand new, in their packets, Star Wars original characters. Hours would be spent with my mum nagging me to make my mind up, before she gave in and bought me both General Motti and Greedo. Faced now with toys such as the Obi-Wan Kenobi with the telescoping lightsaber, I would not be so hasty to get home, rip off the cardboard back cover and go and play hide and seek with him in the back garden.

That very model is now worth a colossal £30,000 in the original packaging. My time travel machine would not be a DeLorean, due to boot size and reliability issues, but a Nissan Navara hardtop, so I could stock up on Obi, Darth and every other character in the galaxy, before placing them in an airtight safe until 2020. They would then be auctioned off and I would live the rest of my days off my time travelled spoils.

Despite having glasses, I have never self-identified as a geek or sci-fi aficionado. Star Wars is the exception to that rule, although I have some truck with recent developments. Akin to comebacks from the likes of Only Fools Christmas specials and the Beatles' Free as a Bird, I reckon if something ain't broke, don’t fix it. Lucas should have ceased greasing his palms after Return of the Jedi and let the franchise float into immortality. Instead there have been spin offs, remakes and reincarnations, some of which, begrudgingly, have been semi-enjoyable, especially the ones with the original cast members making long overdue comebacks.

The obsession is not the films per se, but the razzmatazz around them: the smell of the toys out of their wrappers, the slick, aesthetic design of stormtroopers armour and my urge to hug Chewie as he groans in Wookie speak before treating him to a back, sack and crack at the nearest Nicky Clarke salon.

My wife is currently undergoing bouts of ignoring me as half the loft is rammed with unopened modern day Star Wars toys that are now worth less than I paid for them. Despite the souvenirs and products owned and wished for, my favourite Star Wars memories come from my days as a hospital radio disk jockey.

I would approach people I admired or was curious about and undertake telephone interviews, without ever mentioning that the only listeners were those with working headphones, ie me and whoever else happened to be in studio one at the time.

Dave Prowse, the original Darth Vader, was my first guest. As an icon of that era, not only did he play Darth but he was also the green cross code man, in the days before it was unfashionable for a chap to wander down the high street wearing motorbike boots and a skin tight leotard top combo. He was a joy nonetheless, and was still not bored with being asked the same Death Star questions that he had endured for the previous three decades.

My highlight however, was the recently deceased Kenny Baker, aka R2D2. He was a man of diminutive stature at 3ft 8 ins tall, but with a wicked laugh he remained grounded and took the unexpected adulation in his stride. He sent me a lovely signed photo of himself as R2 which I hang proudly in the house and he wasn’t afraid to spill the beans about his fractious relationship with Anthony Daniels (C3PO) or the tricks his colleagues used to play on him. Kenny explained: "The production crew used to wind me up. When I’d be put into R2, they would stick pictures of page three girls inside. As I battled the Empire, all I could see was Linda Lusardi'. Straight to the point until the end, the world needs more Kenny Bakers and less glossed up, rehashed Hollywood franchises. As the silky tongued charmer Yoda would say ‘That very much like, I do not’.