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I lurched forward when the drugs question came up, most likely looking haggard and sweat-drenched.

At the Mirabelle, my Mayfair restaurant, Johnny Depp chased the paparazzi down the street with a plank of wood – he was arrested and later released on condition he autograph the plank for the police.

I cooked for Fergie at her friend’s house – but what I really hated at such events was the point at which I was asked to come out of the kitchen and meet the guests.

At Fergie’s, I baled out after the main course, leaving Gordon Ramsay to do the puddings.

In 1996, the Prince of Wales asked me to cook for him.

As far as he was concerned, I was a dependent just like him.

“You’re an addict, Marco,” he once told me, with a junkie’s beam of confidence. We went to Chinatown, in London’s West End, for late-night noodles after I had finished service at Harveys. I was 25 years old and Alex was 21, and we managed to keep the relationship going for a year, long enough for me to propose.

After accusing her of taking an illegal left turn, they asked if she’d had a drink.

Having done a tough night at the stove, I found it all a bit too demanding.

Let's, though, imagine that clowns are in a class of their own. Does the creepiness of taxidermism stem from books and movies where taxidermists are portrayed in creepy ways?

How many of these respondents have ever met a taxidermist? You might imagine that these are difficult jobs, only undertaken by people of a certain character.

I had a Michelin star by then but hadn’t considered cooking a sumptuous feast for the occasion. I came from a hard, working-class world which, since my mother’s death, had been dominated by men.