Alright, so I’ve been a bit under the weather, right, I know that. I haven’t been at my finest. And then, yeah, alright, I fell over last week and coughed up some nasty black blood and nearly died a bit. I keep telling them there's nothing wrong with me - I just miss my Blake, is all - and they keep saying, "Alright, but you've got these marks in your arms and your test results are coming back positive for drugs and your lungs have closed up due to crack smoke." And I say, yeah, whatever, fine: you make those assumptions, whatever, but I know the real problem. This is hereditary.

Not a lot of people know this, but in the 19th century there was this thing in England called the Factory Acts. That was when they passed a law that stopped the kiddies working in the factories, doing manual labour, that sort of thing. They’s lungs was getting all clogged from the pipe smoke. They had trouble breathing, and people was all going, "Hang on! Them kids should be in school, not working looms!" But you know what? It put something in us, as a nation, as working class people: Efysima. I probably caught it from my dads, because he’s all London and that. Or I caught it from my Blake. He’s proper London.

And this efysima, which I have read on the internet is a wicked bad sickness is in me already, right? So I have to live with it, a bit like my hero, Dot Cotton, off of Eastenders, which is this thing we watch in London that's all about real life and that.

But I read the wikipedia page efysima and it says that side effects can include “finger clubbing and increased percussion (that means drums, yeah?) in the chest”. Which sounds ... well wicked. That’s like having Mark Ronson living inside my body, which pretty much gives me another hundred years of making hit songs, yeah?