I was in the musical Elvis, and after a costume change I went below stage to be raised up on a platform. As I was raised up, I blanked and couldn’t remember the first line of the song King Creole. I mumbled the first few lines and hoped nobody would notice.

In the 1950s I went to the Chelsea Arts Club’s New Year’s Eve ball at the Royal Albert Hall dressed as a Christmas pudding, with swimming trunks under my costume and holly in my hair.

I once walked up to Harriet Walter while she was having lunch on her own because I thought I knew her, and then when I got up to the table I realised I didn’t know her, I just recognised her because she was Harriet Walter.

It was a small gig and I was doing Three Minute Hero, which has a long, held note at the end, and I fell off the stage.

I did say sorry to my mum, for being the way I was when I was a teenager. You become a parent and go, “Oh my God, this is what they were doing.”

That I’m going to start commenting “Wow” under AI images I think are real.

Enthusiastic, chaotic, bungling.

“What is Seann Walsh and how do we make it die?” It was online, thankfully. It wasn’t in Sainsbury’s.

I got sacked from TK Maxx for falling asleep under the coats.

When I was about two, I accidentally knocked a boiled kettle on myself. I am scarred, in many ways, from that.