I arrived at the gallery early, all coffee and nerves. Rain clouds loitering above cast an indecisive gloom over my trip from kerb to door. Inside, no one spoke as I made my way down the stairs, passing bodies busy prepping the exhibition space. I stood looking simple for a minute before a man in a T-shirt with a Ralph Steadman cartoon of Raoul Duke driving across Nevada strode over and introduced himself. I shook his hand. “I’m here to talk to Ralph.”

The man showed me to a table in the small foyer as workers ambled over and between us. They scattered branded baggies of blue non-meth sugar crystals on every surface and affixed hashtag stickers on walls at careful angles, props meant to appeal to the cool kids who’d be arriving later to drink free beer and document the scene.

I sat down heavily. “Can I get you a drink?” It was Michael. The man in the Steadman T-shirt. Still smiling. Behind him a team of dozens assembled a small bar stocked with Flying Dog beer, a brand with Steadman-designed labels. A nice touch. “I’ll take a water, thanks.” Water – I told myself – might better convince the staff that I was some kind of professional who knew what he was doing.

The three-day exhibition was set up by Sony to show off the artwork Ralph created for their special edition Breaking Bad box sets. There are six designs in total, one for each box set, featuring Walt, Jesse, Gus, Saul, Mike, and Hank respectively.

“He’ll be with you in two.” Michael was still smiling. He set the water down. I opened my laptop, a clean slice of aluminium milled to appeal to my minimal asshole aesthetic. Suddenly I hated it. There’s nothing punk about a MacBook. In minutes I’d be exposed as a fraud and the charade would end in a torrent of abuse and shame.

“Dan, this is Ralph.” Michael was now beaming. I stood up and shook Ralph’s hand. “I'm Dan.” Steadman is 79, tall, with a crop of white hair either side of his head and a firm handshake. His weathered, working hand folded over my own unspectacular paw. Michael finished the introduction. “Dan writes for BuzzFeed.”

“BuzzFeed.” Ralph sounded out the name. I wanted to explain: “You know, the internet.” I decided against it. We sat and I tried not to stare as he got comfortable. Black-rimmed glasses framed his face. He wore a denim shirt and a large necklace adorned with a dozen different pendants – among them a gonzo fist.

Ralph goddamn Steadman. He'd illustrated the cover of one of my favourite novels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and published political cartoons in Private Eye, Punch, and Rolling Stone. He and Hunter S. Thompson were kicked off an assignment covering the 1970 America’s Cup when they tried to paint “Fuck the pope” on the side of a yacht. Here I was drinking water and trying not to choke on it.

I placed my phone on the table and hit record. “I thought we’d start with Breaking Bad."

“I’d never heard of it.” He looked at me, matter of fact. My insides danced. Around us, worker bees buzzed forth with chairs and ice and mild panic. The droning hum of their unwhispered conversations made me fear for the fidelity of the recording.

In my early days of terrible journalism I lost an entire interview with an action movie star and had to email over a set of questions for him to answer as follow-ups. I don’t know if he knew they were the same questions. I suspect Ralph would know. I didn’t want to have to email Ralph.

“But you’re a fan now?”

He nodded. “Loved it when I saw it. We thought we’d watch the first three episodes. Then we started watching three a day. And was it over three weeks or two weeks?”

He looked at his wife, Anne, sitting nearby due to a lack of chairs, not a lack of trust. "Two weeks,” she replied.

Ralph introduced Anne and me. Slight of build with a grey bob, she wore a long red coat and a smile. He turned back to me. “Two weeks, we saw the whole lot. Then of course you start suffering from withdrawal symptoms.”

I asked about his favourite part of the show.

“The total disbelief of Hank when he realised Walt wasn’t as nice a person as he’d made out, and the look on his face. Well, he was, but he’d got so drawn into the evil of it, clawing him, dragging him deeper and deeper into it, and the whole thing of the laboratory starting in the back of the, the, er… what do they call them?”

"Motor home," I said, nailing it.

"No, the other one."

“Winnebago?"

“Winnebago!” he agreed. “Being used for such a… It seemed like an easy enough thing to do at first, but then becoming… One of the drawings I did has a sort of...vaporised monster above it. That sort of idea.”