… I got married.

Picture taken in Café Wanda, near Clapham Common. “Greasy, but satisfying”, says , although it's unclear whether he's referring to the restaurant or my hair.

We met while The Keatons were touring Hungary in February 1995. She arranged the tour with her boyfriend, and for some unknown reason (probably due to my incredible stage presence) decided that I was simply marvellous, although her sullen demeanour during the tour did nothing to alert me to the fact.

In about June, she started writing to me, first by post, and thence by fax to my place of work at the time, which was a tiny office in Brixton. My boss said it was in Poet's Corner, but face it, it was Brixton. Anyway, the faxes came and went, to and fro, and at some point she decided to come to London on holiday, during which time she decided to leave her boyfriend and come here to live. With Me. Insanity!

So my dad drove me to Calais, her friends drove her to Calais, we met outside the Body Shop in some godforsaken shopping centre near the port, loaded her stuff into my dad's car, and he drove us to London, and to my flat on Lambeth Walk. Which was a squat, although I didn't tell my dad that, although I think he knew, because the stairs were f*cked and whenever he asked me to get onto the landlord, I changed the subject.

We got married at Brixton Registry Office, and moved to a flat near the Bricklayers Arms roundabout, as per most modern romances. After 18 months or so we bought a flat in Tooting, where I still live today. I had 6 years of domestic bliss, well, maybe not bliss, but we had a splendid time. And then she decided to leave me for one of my mates, who we will refer to as the Pillsbury Doughboy. Which is a little unfair, because I'm probably rounder than him, but I carry it off with more panache.

She told me this while we were walking through Clapham Common, about 20 yards from where the above photo was taken. I slammed my fist into the metal shutters of a nearby newsagent, setting off a fire alarm, and walked off, briskly. Then followed a month of hell, while she looked for somewhere new to live. Finally, in July 2001, she moved out. My mate Julian helped her move. “Sorry, mate” he said, when he turned up. “Ah, no worries,” I replied. I watched her drive off down the road, sat down and cried for about 2 hours. After 2 hours, it seemed a bit like over-indulgence, so I went into the kitchen and made some lunch.