I dined on slivers of Parmigiano Reggiano and a Banana Ice vape; the combination could be the meal of the damned. Later, I dreamt that Yungblud was dancing in front of me and singing ‘I luv ya, will ya marry me?’ Afterwards he sat cross-legged on my sofa wearing grubby boxers and white socks and nibbled on a pork pie. I told Charlie about my dream. “Not that little twerp from Doncaster,” he said in his French accent.