A picture from my parents’ wedding has always fascinated me because in the far right-hand corner Auntie Agnes is holding a baby. The most likely explanation is that the baby is me and I’m illegitimate, but I have no birth certificate and never could get honest answers out of my parents.
I grew up in a Victorian monstrosity of a building in Holloway, north London, with my parents and three younger brothers. Dad was a crane driver and spent long periods working away from home. It was often down to Mum to look after us, but she was always ill – endless miscarriages didn’t help her – so it fell to me to manage the household. I enjoyed the responsibility.
At seven I contracted meningitis from rat-infested water in our yard. I was in a coma for seven months and when I woke I’d lost my memory. I didn’t recognise my parents, but had to trust them because I had nowhere else to go. Reading at the public library saved me and gradually it all came back.
Dad grew up in County Galway, where he had played accordion in Irish showbands. He could be quite stern, but he had a wicked sense of humour that I never understood until Mum died and I realised his comments weren’t bitter – they were funny.
Mum was from County Cork and died of stomach cancer when I was in my 20s. She was loving in a very quiet way, but that’s all you need from your parents.
Dad and I became really close after Mum died, but then he died suddenly in 2008. He had been having an argument with the woman he was living with, slipped, cracked his head and had a heart attack. At the autopsy, the pathologist said it was a merciful release because he was riddled with cancer. His death left me feeling pointless. At his funeral I was expected to give a speech, but instead I just leant into the coffin, kissed him on the cheek, said, “That’s my dad!”, and fell apart.
In 2004, after I appeared on I’m A Celebrity ... Get Me Out of Here!, an alleged half-sister claimed Mum had had her out of wedlock before marrying Dad, and sent her off for adoption. When my family didn’t respond, she approached the media, which made me question her motives. I sympathise and there may be some truth in her claims, so I’m not saying I’ll never meet her, but I’m not prepared to go into it any time soon.
When I first met Nora, my future wife, we disliked each other so much we were drawn together like magnets. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She was also well educated, funny and dressed magnificently, with a wink to 40s film noir. I have never been unfaithful, though I had plenty of opportunity in the Sex Pistols. We both played the field before we met and found it very wanting.
In 2000 Nora’s teenage twin grandsons came to live with us. Their mother, Ariane, better known as Ari Up from the punk band the Slits, had been bringing them up in Kingston, Jamaica, and let them run free. They couldn’t read, write or form proper sentences. One day Ari said she couldn’t cope with them any more. I suggested they came to us because I wasn’t having them abandoned. They gave us hell, but I loved having kids around.
When Ari died in 2010, I did the best I could to support Nora. You have to let someone talk through their grief. Me and Nora never had children. Opportunities arose, but we weren’t capable of handling the birth of a child at the time. It was Nora’s decision to have the abortions, but you must never question a woman’s right.
The idea of losing Nora is unbearable. If one of us goes before the other it will be murder for the survivor. She is older than me but women live longer, so we should die at exactly the same time. That would be perfect.
• Anger is an Energy: My Life Uncensored by John Lydon is published by Simon & Schuster, £20. To buy from the Guardian for £16, call 0330 3336846 or visit bookshop.theguardian.com
