Gloria Hunniford’s wedding at Hever Castle 20-odd years ago. We had a lovely buffet and a few drinks and then I had to get a cab back to the train station. I said to the driver: “I’m ever so sorry, but I’m not going to be able to hang on till I get to the train. Could you possibly take me down this alleyway?” He said: “Yes, of course.” As I prepared myself to go “to the ladies”, this police car came along and the policeman said: “Hi-de-Hi!”

I was followed by a mob of fans when I was doing a photoshoot in Paris. When I signed autographs for them during a break, one remarked: “Who the fuck is Harlan Coben? I told you it wasn’t Bruce Willis.”

When I was appointed director of public prosecutions, I had a government car and visited the security services. When I came out, I got into the back of what I thought was my car, but it was somebody’s private car and they told me in no uncertain terms to get out. I had to reverse out with as much dignity as I could, with the head of security services watching.

Missing a cue on stage. I had to come on and move a piece of furniture with another actor and I completely forgot. I looked at the monitor and said, “Why is he standing on his own?” And somebody said, “Aren’t you meant to help him?”

To my father, who was aggressively indifferent to what I was doing. He did say sorry to me when he was dying and I don’t think I was very gracious.

Curious, energetic, droll.

The rest is silence.

In despair, because of my wife’s illness.

Edward Bond, the playwright, said I was like a turd flowing on the effluent of British culture.

Isn’t it enough just to be remembered?