One of my best friends is an Italian and Italy is my favourite country in the world, but until last year I’d never been to Milan. Now, including these past 5 days with Coldplay, I’ve spent almost 3 weeks there in total.

This time it was the cathedral of football, the San Siro. My lord, what a place. I just wish I’d seen a match here, but a Coldplay concert is pretty good, too.

Way before Milan I’d been planning a new tattoo, and I told myself if i can find the right artist, i’ll do it. And when I found the Milan tattoo parlour and Curci Ink, I knew it was time.

So I got my face tattooed by the incredible Achille of Curci Ink, currently guest starring in the Milan Parlour. And no, not a little star or tear drop. Full on cheek tattoo, and I couldn’t be happier. I love it “so bad”. Curci said he hadn’t seen a customer so happy with a tattoo before, so everyone was a winner. Apart from my mum. I should probably show her soon.

Here it is, mum!

(I showed her. She said, “oh, it’s not as bad as I thought”!) (Note to self; mum is now immune to my bullshit ways, and I must try harder if I want to distress her) (only joking, mum!)

If you’re gonna do it, do it properly. It’s French, by the way.

Talking of things French, our relationship has been strained of late. I think we were both realising that we weren’t what either of us needed right now. But we booked a hotel and a great day at a water spa (including a cinema in the water, and a shit load of different aquatic scenarios that were a lot of fun).

But the wheels fell off that night. A drunken beast from my very recent past reared her ugly head and wrought destruction upon me. I lost my French girl, I lost my sanity. I almost lost more.

After the aftermath I had to get things right with myself. I went to the gym, I stayed alone, I did my job. But it was also now the last night at the San Siro and I hadn’t watched the show there. I decided I’d better do it now. So I went in, watched a little, and left. I only wanted to check out the stadium and the crowd within.

This is a period I’m going to keep to myself. I’ll come back to it one day, when i’m ready. I was not myself. I don’t drink a lot at all, but I was refused service in 3 bars. I can’t even blame the face tattoo.

But back to the show. The French girl text me, saying the Coldplay song Hymn For The Weekend would always make her think of me, because of the time we got stoned in Manchester and giggled our way through it. It was the song playing as I left the San Siro stadium.

I told her I’d just been watching show. I didn’t tell her I had left because being alone with 80,000 people without her really got me hard. But maybe she knew. Maybe she felt the same and that’s why she messaged me.

“Come back,” she said.

We aren’t the same but we are better than we were, if that doesn’t confuse you. It’s like some pressure we didn’t know we were under has been lifted, and now we are far more relaxed in each others company and are having fun again.

I feel better. I’m sat in a Swiss hotel bar, talking with a barman who’s English isn’t perfect, but he makes a mean whiskey sour and keeps topping me up with peanuts and popcorn and I’ve never felt more Hemingway in my fucking life.

But I wonder what ol’ Ernie would’ve said about the conversation with which my life had been sideswiped:

“Does the sound of my voice break you?” she asked.

“No,” I lied.