Bokelskere.no

I was supposed to have a Watford board meeting, but I rang them and told them I was unwell. I didn’t wash, I didn’t get dressed. I sat around, wanking, in a dressing gown covered in my own puke. It was sordid. Awful.

I was in bed alone at Woodside one morning, half watching television, when a guy with bright orange hair suddenly appeared on the screen and called Rod Stewart a useless old fucker. I hadn’t really been paying attention, but now I was suddenly riveted: someone slagging Rod off was clearly too good to miss. His name was Johnny Rotten, he was wearing the most amazing clothes and I thought he was hilarious – like a cross between an angry young man and a bitchy old queen, really acidic and witty.