When Karen met Steve at a nightclub in Halesowen, it was one of those 'cymbal crashing' moments. It really was love at first sight.
Karen thought Steve looked so cool in his maroon leather jacket, necking Blue Nun. She loved his cute smile, his Blue Stratos after shave and his red Ford XR3i.
Steve, a Stoke City fan, had been a bad lad in the past; he was from the wrong side of the tracks. But when he saw Karen, wearing a white rah-rah skirt and a leopard-print boob tube, he melted.
Steve had to return to his job on a North Sea oil rig, but he was smitten. He gave Karen his pet snake, Elvis, to look after.
They'd go out on dates whenever Steve came home; Steve helped Karen overcome her eating disorder; and Karen's heart exploded when Steve proposed.
Then, on their wedding day, disaster struck. Steve succumbed to a rare tropical disease contracted in the North Sea. The odds, said the doctors, were a billion to one.
The XR3 was decked in white streamers; the wedding feast - chicken in a basket and rum babas - was prepared; but Steve never made it to the altar.
Now, all Karen has are her memories, Elvis the snake, and the tune she and Steve smooched to on that first night. It's their tune. It's Diana Ross and Lionel Richie. It's Endless Love.
This may sound unlikely, but this story is true, or nearly true. Because heartbreaking human dramas just like Karen and Steve's were played out every weekday morning on the much-missed Simon Bates 'Our Tune' slot on Radio 1.
I hadn't thought of this seminal broadcasting feature in years. But Radio 1's 40th birthday celebrations have brought it back, all of it.
Every generation has its Radio 1 vibe. For a while, you feel in step with the station. Every song means something to you, or if you hate the current track you know the next will be a belter.
And then you get old. Chris Moyles and today's crop of DJs with regional accents mean nothing to me. Jo Whiley's OK, but I suspect she's getting on.
Before I got old, my Radio 1 'posse' consisted of the likes of the Hairy Cornflake, 'Ohh' Gary Davies, Mike Read, David 'Kid' Jensen, Steve Wright and Janice Long.
They were great, pop-a-doodle great, but they weren't Batesy. He knew what love was about.
He'd once earned a crust artificially inseminating cattle. "I was desperate and no one else wanted to wear the rubber gloves," he said.
The other ace in Batesy's hand was 'Our Tune' which he launched in 1980. Joyfully, this coincided with my formative years at secondary school.
The 6th form common room was a jungle, but come 11 o'clock, during morning break, all fell quiet as the score to Franco Zeffirelli's film Romeo And Juliet struck up. The only noise to intrude on the majesty of Birmingham-born Batesy's baritone was the crunching of tuck shop Monster Munch.
Why was a bunch of pubescent, football and sex-obsessed teenage boys enraptured by 'Our Tune?'
The slot had more cheese than a quality fondu; Batesy was no trendsetter, opting for Deirdre Barlow specs and cheesecloth shirts; and the subject matter was, frankly, girlie.
And yet, in a phrase the legendary jock would only have uttered off-air, 'Our Tune' was 'bloody brilliant'.
So, happy birthday Radio 1 and cheers, Batesy. You taught a generation of schoolboys the meaning of love.