“I remember the night me and my fiancée had yet another pissed-up nuclear row on a weekend trip to London. Storming out of a Soho jazz club, she pulled off her engagement ring and in a dramatic gesture threw it in a bin. The ring, I should mention cost me £4,000. Cue an hour-and-a-half of me drunkenly sorting through newspapers, cold onion scrapings, tramp puke and god knows what, before giving up. Worse, she later admitted she was secretly hoping I wouldn’t find it, so she could claim it on the insurance and get a prettier one as I brought this one in a rush. The insurance company refused. We’re now married. I still have no memory of what the row was about.”