In September 1988, I walked out of the front door of my parents’ house and didn’t come back until Christmas Eve. I was off to university.

In the intervening months, I lived like a delinquent, hung out with some terrible people who were an awfully bad influence, drank like a fish – correction, a shoal of fish, took far too many recreational drugs, fell in love with young women much too good for me, missed lectures, spent what little money I had on ridiculous clothes and brilliant gigs, ate disgusting food, stayed out all night – night after night – and generally made a complete and utter ass of myself.

I was 18. I was a student. I was supposed to be an ass. I made a tonne of stupid mistakes throughout university, and that meant I learned some very important lessons.

I learned how to look after myself – how to cook, clean and pay bills. I learned to moderate my behaviour. I learned about relationships. I learned how to get out of bed on time. I learned consequences. I learned to apologise and mean it. I learned the value of hard work. I learned that living like an eejit wasn’t a plan. Fundamentally, I learned to grow up.

My friends were the same – both the boys and girls. And all of us emerged years later with good degrees, pretty much ready for the world of work and life as relatively decent members of society. We’re all writers, doctors, engineers, psychologists, accountants, teachers and ad execs today. Some are even in government.

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