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from a day of elation and delirium I chat to Nik Linnen, my partner, my manager, my outsourced rationale. I tell him what I’ve just told you, that I think I’m in love. With Kate Moss, or the idea of Kate Moss – which to my brain is indistinguishable from actual Kate Moss. A conveniently reductive device for dividing women who spend the night in your house is those who make the bed and those who don’t. If a woman makes the bed, the insinuation is that she cares for you, that she wants to take care of you. If she doesn’t, it doesn’t make her a bad person, it just means she’s busy and has to get out and on with her life and has no time for sweet, domestic ritual.
    “If she’s made the bed, Nik, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
    “Don’t get yer hopes up, mate,” he replies in his Manc twang. “It ain’t important, you’re already investing too much in it – saying you love her an’ that – you don’t even know her.”
    I open the dark blue front door of No. 7 Courthope Road. Lucky seven. I am courting hope.
    “I do know her – she’s Kate Moss,” I argue, entering the dingy communal hall with yellow walls and obligatory gas meter cupboard where I hide the spare key.
    “Yeah. That’s what you’re in love with, you idiot – the idea of Kate Moss – not an actual woman. You’re being daft.”
    I open the door of the flat. Morrissey my beautiful cat weaves about my feet, still unconcerned by last night’s visit.
    “Look, you weren’t there. We really connected. If she’s made the bed it’s a sign.” I step into my empty flat and it has never been so empty. I make my way towards the bedroom.
    “Don’t be stupid,” says Nik, “it don’t make no difference – she probably would’ve left in a hurry. Don’t build it up in yer head.”
    “I’m not building it up. I’m just curious.” I close my eyes, inhale and open the bedroom door. I turn on the light and Morrissey bounds in, leaps up and lies down on the perfectly made bed. And I know that I’ll never sleep again.
    †

Chapter 2
    New Musical Expletive
    Being sanctioned by the Princess Diana of counterculture made an immediate impact on my career. The relationship itself went nowhere as I was ill-equipped to cope with the protocols of having a globally worshipped paramour. (To be honest, I struggled to maintain the marriage to my cat – I stoke the romance by taking him up west once a week to the Ivy, plus I keep things spicy in the bedroom by putting dead birds down my pants, so that relationship pretty much takes up all my time.)
    What no one realised, not Kate nor the red-top tabloid press, was that far from viewing her as a conquest, I was absolutely smitten. When I clumsily ballsed it up by flatly telling journalists who I’d not yet learned to ignore that I was “just larking around”, she wisely withdrew and I had enough sense to stop calling her. I didn’t delete her number from my phone though. I left it stored under “Grimy Tyke”, which is what I called her in an attempt to punctuate the endless flattery and awe. She’s probably had about five different numbers since then, but I keep it as a digital memento, just to assure myself that it did really happen, that it wasn’t a dream.
    I could never have anticipated the instant elevation that this liaison would afford me, it was like being awarded a celebrity Victoria Cross. The word “approved” was stamped on my forehead and I was now to appear in the Sun newspaper as regularly as the horoscopes and as spuriously as page 3. My mate Mark Lucey, with whom I worked on Big Brother’s Big Mouth, remarked that in the paparazzi photos from the night I met her I looked like a shifty, greased rat as I peered out all blinking and apologetic from the back of the rain-spattered cab. “You look like you don’t belong there,” he said. “But here,” he continued, regarding a shot several days later where I dashed from her house, “you look like a dandy lifeguard