Some songs just flowed out of me on a river of emotion, and that was one of them. It wasn’t a sad song, but it resonated deeply; a tale of privilege versus hardship and poverty; a postcode lottery in which plenty was given to the few but denied to the many. You could have heard a pin drop in the room as I howled out the chorus. Even the too-cool-for-school celebs and supermodels were transfixed. When we finished, there was a second’s silence, then a roar of approval, far more genuine than the applause at the start.

I felt a moment of pure happiness – followed instantly by a stab of grief so deep I wanted to double over.

I wanted Pete to be there, clapping. I wanted Mum to be wiping away a tear of pride, just like Mrs Marsh over there. I wanted Dad to be nodding slowly and appreciatively. I wanted someone to give me a huge hug, in the way that Spike’s girlfriend was embracing him.

So it was with a mixture of delight and a dragging sense of loss in my belly that I left the venue a couple of hours later, walking with the boys through the studio doors and along a short pathway to the pavement, where the uniformed drivers of several executive cars waited to whisk us home.

That was when it happened, as we were all milling around, ignoring the paparazzi gathered outside the gates.

Later, I remembered it was a balmy evening – the sort of June night England does so well, when the air was warm yet still fresh and redolent with the scent of petrol, fast food and cut grass.

I’d just been chatting to Webbo, discussing when we’d next meet and what a great night it had been, when a huge and sudden howl of rage made us both swing around, jerking our heads with shock. The security guard at the studio doors started to bolt down the path, but he wasn’t quick enough: a bulky person in a clown mask leaped out, literally from the bushes he’d been hiding in a few feet away, we realised later, and threw something. At me.

I saw a flash of lime green and put my arm up over my eyes, just in time as it transpired, before I was completely drenched with paint flung from a five-litre can. The assailant’s aim was deadly accurate; there was barely a square inch of me that he hadn’t coated. Thankfully I had managed to protect my eyes, but it was in my open mouth, my nostrils and ears, deafening and humiliating me. Bright green, stinking, dripping off me, splattering everyone in a seven-foot radius.