And then Porter Nash did something that would become the stuff of police legend.

He slammed down the phone.

The rule is: never, never never never… hang up on a kidnapper, extortionist or hostage taker.

Then, to add to the myth, Porter collapsed.

An ambulance was called and he was rushed to St Thomas’. The paramedics, on hearing about chest pains, shot him through to Coronary Care, Porter feeeling like he was an extra in ER… the mad gallop through the corridors, the IV bottle, the oxygen mask, he’d have enjoyed it if the fucking pain wasn’t so intense.

Porter Nash knew for certain he was dying. Gays like him liked Dolly Parton marginally better than Barbra Streisand, and her version of ‘I Don’t Know Much’ was reeling in his head. He could hear ‘I don’t know much but I know I’m dying’, which made it a torch song of mega echoes.

They got him hooked up to the monitors, took blood — the cocksuckers — and get this… began to question him.

Like this:

‘When did the pains start?

Where are they concentrated?

Do you smoke?

Any history of heart disease in the family?’

That kind of shite.

He wanted to say:

‘Fuck off.’

But he knew they wouldn’t. They kept up the barrage of questions, carried on doing stuff to his chest. He could see little plastic plugs that were attached to him and the amount of tubes in his left arm was to be seen to be believed.

The specialist said:

‘I would say the tube in your heart is gone.’

At least that’s what it sounded like, or some valve had packed it in. To Porter Nash it all sounded like sayonara. He was finally given some painkillers and he swallowed them with relish. The truth is, he would have killed for a cig.