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Next morning, the police wanted to talk to me. My wife had reported me missing, and when I paid for the room by card, alarm bells rang.
The police brought a psychiatric nurse, who began asking me questions from a clipboard. I answered on autopilot, feeling like I wasn’t really there. It all seemed to be happening to someone else.
But I got jolted awake when I overheard the nurse say to the policeman: ‘I’m not sure yet that we need to section him.’
‘We think you might be a danger to yourself, sir,’ the policeman said. That was scary. Then, to my astonishment, a man I knew walked in. A friend.
His name was Gerald Bailey, a businessman who had served as a trustee for my charity, Out Of The Dark. ‘I will look after this gentleman,’ he said.
I sat in his plush motor, sobbing. Proper, shoulder-heaving, gut-wrenching sobs. Everything poured out of me. When I stopped crying, I realised I’d got my feelings back. I was alive again.
One red-hot recipe for MasterChef
I never cook, except for three or four basic dishes I make for myself on a loop. But when I was invited to appear on Celebrity MasterChef, I was full of my characteristic, inexplicable self-confidence, and I decided I didn’t even need to watch the show in advance, let alone practise my culinary skills.
‘It’s TV!’ I told my partner.
‘I know how it’ll work. I’ll start cooking some stuff, then they’ll turn the cameras off and someone will come out and cook it for me! They’ll pretend I have done it.’
On the day, the hosts Gregg Wallace and John Torode handed me and the other contestants a box of ingredients, and told us we had an hour to rustle up something spectacular. The clock started ticking and everyone began running around. I stood there, holding my box, waiting for a professional chef to step in.
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