I’d look for the mad amusement park on the base of Mount Fuji and take a few rides in there, and then whisk myself off very, very, very quickly on a jet cos it’s gonna be a long day. I’m thinking of getting stuck up in the Himalayas, but then that just gives me another mountain and you’re gonna think I’m a bit of a mountain freak. Where would I go? Not the pyramids! I’d like to get a plane from Japan to Petra in Syria, which is a little city that’s in the desert; it’s quite famous, it’s all made out of sand, like carved out of the desert. While I’m flying I’d like to catch up on the last few books of Philip K. Dick, then I’d come to my flat in London for lunch, say my goodbyes to my dear friends and family, pick up my two children and leave. I’d steal a tank and drive it up to Heathrow. I wouldn’t mind giving my girlfriend one in the middle of Parliament Square whilst shouting out, ‘It’s in the name of art!’ Then I’d nick a Concorde and fly to Arizona whilst having a wet shave and a top massage.

Anywhere but the M25, rushing around in circles going nowhere with no one.

Drinking green tea with my wife and listening to Eno’s ‘Music For Airports’.

Book all the headliners that I’ve never managed to book for Bestival, for future Bestivals that my children will run after I die. Kate Bush, Prince, Dolly Parton, David Bowie – maybe throw Iron Maiden in there for a bit of a laugh. I’d get on the mobile and stroll around outside and do some deals. Maybe get some of these hard-arse agents to give me a bit of a discount as I’m dying.