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My right leg? Donated by a motorcycle crash victim, 24-years-of-age.

My left arm? Came from a Jamaican guy, crushed by a skip in an industrial accident. It was the only part of him worth saving, to be honest.

I’ve been given the spine of a former pole-vaulter and a facial skin graft from a Romany gypsy – he didn’t need skin where he was going.

Medical progress, they say, is a wonderful thing. And indeed it is; I am a freak.

Next week an entrance turnstile is getting installed in my lounge, and I can’t wait.

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