I have been pretty terrible in quite a lot of terrible things.

Scrabbling about under dusty floorboards as an electrician in my early 20s.

Caddying for really rich people at this country club in Connecticut when I was a teenager. They would talk like I wasn’t there so I would hear all about their lives, their affairs and their stupidity, and yet I couldn’t say anything.

Working on an assembly line in a plastics factory.

I recently had a dramatic fall on stage in Hungary. It was a massive stage – I was miles away from the audience – and I didn’t expect there to be two monitors in the middle of it. I went completely arse over tit and landed on my chin. First, I felt shock, pain, embarrassment, and then I felt lucky that I didn’t break any teeth or bite through my tongue. I asked for an ice pack for my chin, got up and finished the set.

My problem with clothes. I’ve got an issue, haven’t I? I’m not a fella in a band who can turn up in his T-shirt and jeans. I’ve got the whole drama of what I’m going to wear: the hair, the makeup. All that preening and pruning that adds to the stress. I have begun to hate that perfectionist in me.

Last week, because of an ear infection: I cried my eyes out when they put a big injection into my arse.

The fact that I smoke.

My car. I don’t even drive, but I bought a Toyota hybrid for my assistant.