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.

Taking myself seriously, even in a Vanity Fair quiz.

Fear, anxiety and panic attacks.

Lack of confidence.

I bought a BMW 7 series and my best mate said: “I don’t think you should buy this, bro, it’s too cheap.” And I said: “Let’s live the dream” and put my foot down hard on the accelerator and the bottom of the engine and the gearbox blew out.

Juicy, funny, impulsive.

To my cousin P, who was one of my best mates growing up. We lost him when we were in our 20s and, before he passed away, I was so busy with this stupid thing called life and a brand new kid. He called me and said: “Bro, I’m not feeling right.” And I said: “Bro, you’ve never been feeling right.” And it always sits on my head that if me or somebody else had been paying more attention maybe things would have worked out different. He had extremely rare bowel cancer and died five weeks later at 27.

Turning my life around. Seeing the level of criminality I was involved with, and coming to the realisation that it was not the life that I should be leading.

Leafleting for a window company when I was 12. I remember putting them through letterboxes thinking: I’m going to sell drugs, because this is rubbish.

Want for your brothers and sisters what you want for yourself.