That April evening was one of the highlights of my life … until it was ruined. It was certainly the pinnacle of the band’s trajectory. It was what we had all fantasised about since our days in the squat, nine years previously. Secretly fantasised about. None of us ever articulated it, beyond a vague ‘we want to get the message out’ and an earnest agreement that, should we ever hit the big time, we would use the money to help the needy. But we’d come such a long way since the days of really having a message, of ranting about consumerism and elitism and cronyism. Perhaps if we had been more honest we would have admitted the truth: Yeah, and obviously it would be great to be millionaires too.

Our progress had been slow and steady, but what Cohen had worked and argued and sacrificed for finally paid off. All those circuits of the country in the knackered, old red van; the student unions and pubs and crappy festivals; the flexi-discs and home-printed T-shirts, building up our rabidly loyal fanbase, Goth by Goth.

That momentous evening saw the launch of our album, our third, but the first of a new deal with a major label, and said label had pushed the boat right out. They’d given us a five-million-pound advance for it, so they had to make sure they did all they could to recoup it – and the marketing and promotional spend started with the launch.

It sounded a lot, five million, we all agreed, almost sheepishly. And it was, of course. We rationalised it by pointing out that those were the days of stupid advances. Bowie and U2 got close to forty million for deals in the late eighties and early nineties.

The launch was held in a swanky recording studio venue in Chiswick, the live room decorated with huge floor-to-ceiling black-and-white photographs of each of us. People milled around – other popstars, looking haughty and vaguely peed off that they weren’t the centre of attention. Journalists, TV celebrities and record-company staff from bigwigs to postroom boys had all just started arriving. The plan was to do an exclusive full playback of the new album, once enough free champagne had been circulated, followed by us performing an acoustic version of the first single, ‘Old Boys’ Club’.

Marsh was grumbling about the champagne and ‘fuckin’ ridiculous canapés’ that a dozen besuited waiters were offering on silver trays. ‘It’s not right,’ he kept saying.

‘Oh, chill out, Marsh,’ Webbo said, swigging back a full glass of fizz. ‘We’ve been over this a thousand times. The more well-known we are, the more of a platform we have to effect change.’