People ask me. No, I didn’t name myself after Jesus. I took my name from my surroundings. Like the old days. I live in Bermondsey in London near the river. It’s wonderful. Saint Saviour’s was the name of the Benedictine Abbey that put Bermondsey on the map hundreds of years ago. Then came the Huguenots to make leather and beer, and the dockers to help stock London’s larder. The abbey is now in ruins under a glass floor in a greek restaurant. I go there and drink rose cocktails. I ran a community choir in the old Leathermarket for years. The tanning factory is now plush apartment buildings. The breweries are all gone, the warehouses all restaurants and posh homes. But sometimes in the wood of the beams you can smell the spices and imagine the tiger that once escaped in Shad Thames from that Indian Clipper, or look over to Wapping and see where they used to hang pirates out to soak up the salt water, or saunter into Borough High street to drink in the same spot Shakespeare used to. Hurrah to that.