Doherty’s first sight of Barat was on stage in Liverpool, playing guitar on a breakbeat version of Purple Haze while setting off a smoke bomb. He was suitably impressed. When they met six years ago, they initially had few interests in common – “I’d show him Tony Hancock and he’d show me how to skin up,” says Doherty – but they forged an immediate, intangible bond. “We had some kind of inner storm in common that drove us together, even though a lot of the time we didn’t actually want to be together,” says Barat. “We didn’t really get on,” Doherty agrees. “But I was fascinated by ideas he had about himself and the country. I’d never met anyone like him. It was – what’s the word when you can’t take your eyes off someone?” Magnetic? Riveting? Barat theatrically arches an eyebrow. “Someone’s been reading Roget.” “Yes, it was riveting,” Doherty continues. “Despite everything, you knew there was goodness there. Something to believe in. Something which is good, pure and untainted by anything.” “I think I felt a bit trapped before I met Pete,” admits Barat. “Have you seen The Lavender Hill Mob? Alec Guinness plays this wonderful, colourful person who locks it all up and goes through the motions. I always felt a bit like that. But then I met the Pigman and he said, ‘You can actually knock that on the head and get out.’ So we threw ourselves into eternity. And it worked.”