In school, I was 11, and we had to paint a picture of family life. My painting was held up to the class and I was told it looked like a spider with ink on its feet had walked across the page. It was done so viciously – humiliating.

I was going to a bar with friends and there was a line at the door. I’d been there before and asked the doorman to skip the line. He said, “Oh, I remember you, you were in Almost Famous, weren’t you?” And I said, “Yeah.” And he goes, “Yeah, get back in line.”

This was said about me in a Radio 1 focus group: “I don’t pay my licence fee to hear scummy northerners.”

“You’ll never do well as an actor unless you change your name.” I’m not going to say who.

I worked in a paper factory at five o’clock on a Saturday morning when I was in my early 20s. I’d go out raving the night before, get an hour’s sleep and then go to the factory. I was covered in paper cuts and used to think I heard people talking to me; they gave me a lot of breaks because they thought I was going mad.

I remember going to my auntie Pauline’s house in winter when I was eight or nine and she made me a roast beef sandwich. I ate it and fell asleep next to a fire. I felt like a cat, fed and left to nap.

Thinking that I’m right when I’m wrong. But not only that – being able to convince other people I’m right and then finding out I’m wrong.

Losing my makeup bag.

Lovely but useless.

That money doesn’t buy happiness.