In 2016, I fell off stage in Switzerland and broke my back in four places.

But in a flash there came across me a great project. The chine which the bridge spanned was full of young fir trees. Their slender tops reached to the level of the footway. 'Would it not' I asked myself 'be possible to leap on to one of them and slip down the pole-like stem, breaking off each tier of branches as one descended, until the fall was broken?' I looked at it. I computed it. I meditated. Meanwhile I climbed over the balustrade. My young pursuers stood wonder-struck at either end of the bridge. To plunge or not to plunge, that was the question! In a second I had plunged, throwing out my arms to embrace the summit of the fir tree. The argument was correct; the data were absolutely wrong. It was three days before I regained consciousness and more than three months before I crawled from my bed. The measured fall was 29 feet on to hard ground. But no doubt the branches helped.

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

I had some gynaecological issues that were very sudden, about 18 months ago, and felt that I might be dying. I wasn’t but it was quite serious.

Pulling Sandra.

To any of the players I may have fallen out with during my time in management.

That my mum and dad didn’t move to live by the sea, where we live, before they died.

When I met [my wife] Sandra. I was coming up 17. We met at the Two Puddings, a dance hall in Stratford.

As someone who had time for everybody.

It used to be worrying about football results.