When a pal grabbed hold of me as I fell into an unbanistered stairwell at a rave. Would have been curtains, but for his sharp reaction.

My failed driving test a few months ago. I got three majors and by the end of it the examiner couldn’t wait to get out of the car.

I hit a bit of lumpy tarmac driving my motorbike over the Pyrenees in the early 1980s. There was no safety barrier and I found myself riding along the edge of a precipice on half the width of the tyres for 100 yards.

In a different sense, I’ve helped to try to resuscitate a dead man.

The missus. She is the glamour mamma mia at the top of our feudal pyramid. We all live together, so she’s a full-time grandmother and rules the roost. How she steered us through lockdown was extraordinary.

This is going to horribly upset my wife, my children and my grandchildren, but it was when I did The Greatest Snowman last year for Channel 4. Being let loose on an Austrian mountainside to build snow sculptures was my happy point, and who knew I’d find an icy G-spot at nearly 58.

Other people’s decorating, if I feel they’ve missed an opportunity and just decorated in that wet-cardboard, modern-grey thing. That’s a life not properly lived.

I am crucified by my modesty: it’s terrible.

My wife. I am a lavish present-giver. I love worshipping my wife with beautiful bits and pieces – it is one of my greatest pleasures.