I’m happy to make people cry. I’m comfortable with my TV shows being in that end-of-ET emotional space.

Find your thing. Going into any non-traditional career, you need a rock solid sense of purpose. It has to be the only thing you can do.

Fear is the driving force of teenage boys. I’ve worked with them a lot, my wife is a teacher, too, and that’s what I’ve learned. A lot of their anger and attitudes are born out of a fear of being seen getting it wrong, being humiliated. They then develop those hardened personae, but underneath that outer shell, they want connection.

My nickname at school was “Bean Head” because, well, my head looked like a bean. I tried growing my hair long, but I looked like a piece of Edam cheese with a bean on it. Bad days.

The key to life is having something you’re fully invested in and enjoy, but will never master. I paraphrase, but Henry Moore, the sculptor, said that. I had it on my wall for ages. Good company, too. Have something to do and people to do it with.

I met Arthur Miller at university. He told me he wrote all his plays for his dad: if his father didn’t get something, Miller would discard it, because it wouldn’t connect with a wider audience. I took that on board. Now, I always think, can my dad tell his mates about this down the pub?

I have a phobia of the bottom of ships. It goes back to watching The Poseidon Adventure when I was a child. Murky depths, sharks and giant propellers. I can’t shake it off.

The best bit of my job is the music. It’s wonderful going onstage at the Royal Albert Hall in front of royalty, but what sustains me is getting a song together, rehearsing it and nailing it. That’s enough for me.

My tax return gives me satisfaction. I look at it and go: “This is all music. Every job here is something I was proud of.”

My parents have a photo of me and Richard Osman up in their kitchen. He’s a giant. I’m standing on a box.

Being a parent is like running a small business with somebody you used to go out with. It’s easy to get caught up in “dadmin”. The secret to a happy marriage is finding time together to reconnect.

I warm up in the shower. If I’m in a hotel before a gig, that’s where I’ll do my vocal exercises: steam de-clogs the apparatus.

I fell in the school pond as a kid and had to take all my clothes off. Somebody laughed at my naked body. On Celebrity Bake Off, we had to recreate our most embarrassing moment in meringue. I chose that scene, and made a tiny naked pink Gareth. It proved therapeutic.

One of my directors calls me Metaphor Malone. I drag them out and rinse them.

My bohemian, lentil-eating effeteness can be useful. It destabilises people. When the BBC sent me into Aylesbury Prison, I’d rock up and go, “Hello! Pleased to meet you, young man. Are you interested in doing some singing?” Some of them hate it. Others are intrigued: why is he speaking in this way? Why is he not wearing the things that I expect a man of his age to wear?

I’ve worn my OBE on three occasions. For two family funerals and when I performed at the Invictus Games opening ceremony. You don’t wear it for yourself. You wear it to honour the event.

I’m feeling all right about turning 50. I’ve got this vision of hiring a Scottish castle for a party and going nuts.

I’ve never liked sitting still. I’m obsessed with learning new things. I fear stagnation. When the zest to move forward goes, it’ll be time to hang up my boots.

Sing-Along-A-Gareth-Three: My Life In Song tours the UK from 29 October (garethmalone.com)