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.

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

The rest of that night is a feverish blur. I asked to talk to my mom; had a slice of chocolate cake; prayed. I remember waking up every few hours and seeing my mother praying by my bedside, then every nurse in the hospital, and then every cleaning staff member who loved my father for his kindness toward them throughout the years — all praying for me.

There’s always a lyric to finish. They hang around, and I think it would be awful to go without tidying those up.

Getting older and dying.

To the Scissor Sisters. Back in the day, I could be an absolute monster; I was a real asshole.

A Henry Darger painting. Sadly, I lost it in the divorce, but it was a great parting gift.

The realisation that I am no longer young.

Five years ago, a concrete plug, a little bigger than a baseball, fell off a building on Hollywood Boulevard when I was riding in an open convertible. It shattered the windshield. It really shook me. I still have it on my mantel.