Abseiling down a cliff for Doc Martin in a suit, carrying a medical bag.

A car accident in British Columbia 35-40 years ago. I was driving too quickly on a dirt road and lost control of the car, and it went off a cliff and got stuck in some treetops. We were not at all hurt; we actually just climbed out.

I’ve been asleep at the wheel on the M11, had an engine fire over the Atlantic in a light aircraft, driven unprotected through an enemy firing zone to do a gig in wartime Sarajevo – the list goes on and on. But I did have stage 3 throat cancer and was cured by some fantastic UK medics.

One of these days I will encounter what Henry James called on his deathbed “the distinguished thing.” I will not be conscious of the moment of passing. In this life I have already been declared dead. It wasn’t so bad. After the first ruptured artery, the doctors thought I was finished. My wife, Chaz, said she sensed that I was still alive and was communicating to her that I wasn’t finished yet. She said our hearts were beating in unison, although my heartbeat couldn’t be discovered. She told the doctors I was alive, they did what doctors do, and here I am, alive.

Not very concise.

Bicycle courier: it was literally dicing with death on a minute-to-minute basis for 12 hours a day. It was terrifying and exhausting.

We are not here for long – try not to take everything too seriously.

Letting down the people I love.

Self-loathing that rises to the level of deploring.

Anyone who speaks truth to power at the risk of their own safety.