
Hilary, Dad, me and Mum sporting the four hairstyles available in Bradford in 1958.

Me, Dad and Mum in Nicosia, 1958. Dad very pleased with his gun. Is that lanyard supposed to hang there? Is it safe?

Wolseley Barracks, Cyprus, 1959. The house that became known as ‘the Cockroach House’.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them . . .

Giving the girl’s name thing a good testing. Dad is in the background washing his beloved car – the boot catch of which will become his nemesis.

Onward, Christian soldiers! Me out front, naturally, then (left to right) Grandma Ed, Mum, Hilary and Grandad Ed. Bolton Abbey, 1961.

Dad and me ready for Matthew’s christening, channelling Flanders and Swann.

On the roof of the flat in Bahrain, 1965. Gun, sword and hat – all the tools.

A young berserker in training.

Off to Hutton Junior High, 1968. With these shorts, these glasses and this hairdo, no one will dare say I’ve got a girl’s name.

Pocklington. This young groover is keen to break into the hard/cool set, and is prepared to stand in a hedge until it happens.

Me and Grandma Sturgeon. Looks like she’s just won at canasta. Again.

Tsavo National Park, Kenya, 1972. Six of us packed into a Renault 4. Lions in the long grass wondering if they need one of those special keys you get with a tin of corned beef.

With Hilary in Uganda, 1972. I’m thinking about the Goon Show scripts I have in my suitcase.

Me (far right) at school, playing The Logician in Rhinoceros and doing a fairly reasonable impression of Jacques Tati.

Pocklington, 1975. Left to right: the homemade bass cab, Iain, then me playing the old egg slicer. I’m not singing – I’m crying out in pain.

Peace of Thorn being majestic. Ian on drums, Iain’s hand to the right, me front and centre, in my Melody Maker clothes and national health specs, hoping my fingers won’t bleed too much. I know it’s a bit blurred but, frankly, so were we.

Pocklington School Smoking XI 1974/75.
Dave, who took over on bass (middle row, first from left).
Andy, whose house I stayed in when I ran away (back row, first from left).
Me (middle row, third from left).
Iain, guitar hero and the boy who said ‘Nah’ (front row, second from left).
Bike shed on the right.

20th Century Coyote at The Band on the Wall in Manchester, 1976. Left to right: Lloyd Peters, Mark Dewison, me, Mike Redfearn, Rik (in a cape, naturally).

The only photograph in existence of Coyote performing. Mark, Rik, Lloyd, me. Everyone in bikinis except for Rik (in a cassock, naturally).

At Rik’s parents’ house in 1979. Out of Uni and straight into . . . ah . . . well . . . just four paid gigs in the first year.

Performing at the Fringe Club in Edinburgh, 1979.

In the Comic Strip Club dressing room, wearing the sweaty plastic suits. Something funny is going on.

Another relaxed performance by the Dangerous Brothers.

Me and Dawn touring Australia with the Comic Strip in 1981. I believe the rest of the gang went by coach.

The Comic Strip Presents . . . Pete Richens, me, Robbie Coltrane, Sophie Richardson, Pete Richardson and Pete Richardson’s shorts. We filmed nearly everything on the Devon coast . . .

. . . except for ‘Mr Jolly Lives Next Door’, which we filmed partly outside 10 Downing Street in 1987. Glynn Purcell, me, Stephen Frears, Rik, Basil Ho Yen. No permit, we just turned up very early and told the coppers we were ‘with the film crew’.

Choosing a photo from the contact sheet for the Bottom Live tour. Rik has four choices, I have one – this was generally the way of things.

The Bonzos in 2006: including Vernon Dudley Bohay-Nowell, Sam Spoons, Rodney Slater and Neil Innes – with me, out front! ME! WITH THE BONZOS!

Me and Troy as the Bad Shepherds. Not a sheep in sight. That’s how bad we were.

The Idiot Bastards: me, Phill Jupitus, Rowland Rivron’s hand and Neil Innes.

Trying to impress Jennifer at a party in the eighties.

Success!

Our last photo together. We’ve just had one of our lunches. He still doesn’t understand. And neither do I.

In Paris with David, enjoying the best that life has to offer.

‘“O Oysters,” said the carpenter . . . but answer came there none—’