I’d like to see all my friends. I would have my breakfast and then I would go to Ireland and see my friends – Frank McGuinness, Penny and Desmond Guinness…all those people. I would have lunch in the castle with Penny and Desmond and maybe some other people, then in the afternoon I would go to New York and do the same thing.

The rest of that night is a feverish blur. I asked to talk to my mom; had a slice of chocolate cake; prayed. I remember waking up every few hours and seeing my mother praying by my bedside, then every nurse in the hospital, and then every cleaning staff member who loved my father for his kindness toward them throughout the years — all praying for me.

My last afternoon would be spent with my friends. Nothing spectacular, just good times. We’d maybe walk through Soho in London getting a little loaded and making it up as we go along. Some good rum and that’s all.

Book all the headliners that I’ve never managed to book for Bestival, for future Bestivals that my children will run after I die. Kate Bush, Prince, Dolly Parton, David Bowie – maybe throw Iron Maiden in there for a bit of a laugh. I’d get on the mobile and stroll around outside and do some deals. Maybe get some of these hard-arse agents to give me a bit of a discount as I’m dying.

The realisation that I am no longer young.

Five years ago, a concrete plug, a little bigger than a baseball, fell off a building on Hollywood Boulevard when I was riding in an open convertible. It shattered the windshield. It really shook me. I still have it on my mantel.

Getting older and dying.

A Henry Darger painting. Sadly, I lost it in the divorce, but it was a great parting gift.

To the Scissor Sisters. Back in the day, I could be an absolute monster; I was a real asshole.