In 2001, my father finally succumbed to the bone cancer that had tortured him for seven years. His last weeks were a terrible, black icing on the cake, the agony, the slow twisting, thinning and snapping of his skeleton. Everything fell apart.

I'm nostalgic for the future I knew as a kid. Back then, it was a lovely, bleepy, heavenly land populated by svelte men in white polo necks, who would lounge on big white sofas sipping blue wine from big glass globes, beside women like the ones on the covers of Hedkandi chill out compilations.

I was a pedantic child. I'd get really annoyed at the logic of small things that don't bother anyone else.

Christmas movies, it's a hard thing to do. The danger is you just end up with a Hollywood star with a Santa beard. You risk it being fake and cheesy and not real.

People sort of imagine Chris Morris and me sitting somewhere dark, with dripping taps and chilling background music. In fact, we like to sit on his roof in the sunshine - and there's an endless amount of just sitting there, going, 'So, erm, er, what shall we do?'