I knew it was going to happen. I had three days off, after a 30-day run of gigs. As I walked off stage in Blackburn, and got into the car, my head started to feel heavy, and my breathing became laboured. I was going to be ill for the entire duration of my time off.

This is a well-known phenomenon, but as yet I am unable to find a consensus as to why it happens. Basically, your body struggles to get you through the demands of work, then the second your brain relaxes and you no longer have those demands, it completely shuts down.

I am not the true victim in this, although I play it very effectively. The main suffering is borne directly by my wife. There is a story of a man who, despite losing both legs in accident, managed to crawl home because he wanted to speak to his wife and family before he received medical attention. He arrived nearly dead, but managed to utter his message despite being in agony. He moaned less than I do when I have a cold.

When I arrived home, I immediately declared to the house that I was dying. I lay in bed bemoaning the curse that had befallen me, explaining that they had no idea what I was going through and demanding some sort of sympathy or, better yet, bedside food service.

My three days off were spent lying in my pants, a plate of toast resting on my chest, while I watched The Thick Of It over and over again, moving only to brush some crumbs off my torso or to shout to a passing child about how ill I was. It was hellish. My wife initially showed sympathy, buying me medication and occasionally stroking my head. Eventually, however, she shut the door and let me be. She told me this was to stop anyone disturbing me, but I soon realised that it was so they could pretend I wasn’t home. I could hear them laughing and having fun downstairs, and then, when they came to see me, they would paint on sad faces and ask how I was doing. Pathetic.

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I don’t like going to the doctor. I wish I could tell you it was because I feel a desperate need not to overload the NHS before it is turned into a series of drive-thru McDonald’s. But the truth is that I have had the same doctor since I was a kid, and I once had to see him about a problem with my penis. He said he wasn’t sure why I was worried, and that it was perfectly fine, which made me feel as if he thought I had gone to the surgery purely to show him my penis. In every subsequent visit, I have had to resist the urge to start by saying: “Can I just take this opportunity to reiterate that I did genuinely think I had something wrong with my penis?”

As a result, I am forced to self-diagnose, which means Googling, followed by panic attacks. For about an hour, a particular internet wormhole led me to believe that I might need to get my nose amputated. It turned out that I had acute sinusitis, which, I was delighted to discover, can knock you off your feet and is very painful. I told my wife triumphantly, and awaited her awe at my bravery. She said that she’d had it the previous week, but I hadn’t known because she hadn’t mentioned it. I spent the night trying to find some evidence to suggest that sinusitis affects men more seriously than women. I know: pretty sad.