Yayoi Kusama’s Manhattan Suicide Addict.

Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads. When I first heard it at 15, it was different to all the punk I was listening to. When I was starting out in my career, it was all about: ‘How is this possible? How am I doing this?’ Now it’s: ‘Is this my life? How did I get here?’ The lyrics are all about returning full to nature. That’s how I imagine death to be. So that’s what I want at my funeral. And they’ll play Combine Harvester by the Wurzels as people are leaving the church.

Tchaikovsky's 1812, sung by Barry Manilow.

George Harrison's My Sweet Lord.

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.

My granddaughter is only one, but she gives the best hugs. That’s when I’m happiest at the moment.

I worked in the largest pork pie factory in Europe. I had a plastic mushroom-shaped thing and had to tamp down the meat into the pie base. It was a conveyor belt of pies from nine to five. The worst thing was the crackly AM radio, which was played loudly through the tinny tannoy system. I still can’t listen to I’m Not In Love by 10cc without thinking of raw minced pork.

Not doing Top Of The Pops when The Young Ones’ single went to number one.

I only ever wanted to be an actor or a rock star. I was suspended from school in the sixth form and allowed back only when I promised to join the army. But I lied.

I practise stoicism. Not the stiff-upper-lip, modern stuff, but the ancient Greek philosophy. You have to accept what you can’t change. I try to face forwards all the time. When that doesn’t work, I think about buying a machine gun.