Where are you on Sundays? I’m on tour at the moment, so I could be anywhere. This Sunday I woke up in a Bournemouth Airbnb, on a bed so comfy that I stripped it to find out the manufacturer. I’m going to chuck out my disgusting old specimen at home and buy myself one of these ones. Are Sundays busy? It all builds to an evening show, so the whole day has a strange nervousness, an undercurrent of tension that builds until you hit the stage. I’d love to spend the day drinking a real ale in front of a fire at a lovely pub, doing the crossword with the dog at my feet. Instead, I walk around city centres trying not to panic. What do Sundays feel like? There’s no feel – it’s a working day. Because of that, they’ve lost any individual character or meaning. My wife and I sometimes get nostalgic, both yearning for a time when Friday nights were exciting and Sundays were lazy; I miss the comfort of that predictability. How do you relax? Being outdoors. I’ll walk the dog – along the Gower is my favourite spot – and go for a sea swim. I rarely get a Sunday lunch; the last roast I did was at Christmas. We just can’t be bothered with the faff, despite the fact I’d probably enjoy it. Sundays growing up? I was dragged along to church every week against my will. I loathed it completely, and at around 14 I became too big and stroppy to be taken unwillingly. Lunch was alright, then the afternoons were crap. I suffered from social anxiety as a kid – the dread of homework and being back at school was awful. Sunday evening? Pre-show, lots of pacing. I’ve got a routine: eat, shower, soundcheck, iron shirt. Then there’s a two-hour rollercoaster onstage, followed by a crash when I collapse afterwards. Later, my tour manager and I settle down on the sofa with a pizza, glass of wine, and Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares around 1am. It’s more romantic than when I’m at home.