“In 2002, in the proudest night of my life, me and a couple of mates got pissed with Johnny Vegas. We met him after one of his Manchester gigs, whereupon we all crashed a members club and he introduced us to his favourite tipple: Champagne and Guiness. Four hours later, utterly steaming, we decamped to his house to continue drinking. Which is where I awoke the next day. Opening my eyes, I was momentarily confused by the strange sofa and living room. But not as baffled as I was when one of the country’s top comedians waddled into view, naked except for greying apple-catchers, with an ashtray stuck to the side of his head. ‘Hello,’ he said, picking fag-ends out of his cheek. ‘Who the f**king hell are you?’”