1 Autumn 2005: 7 weeks to go Matt answers the door of David's flat. I'm immediately distracted by the state of his face.He's got two large pieces of tissue paper stuck to his cheeks, one on each side, and there's blood seeping through them. He clocks my expression. 'Hello, friend!' he says merrily. 'Notice anything odd about my face?' He's joking, but also stressed out. In about twenty minutes' time he's due to be photographed by dozens of paparazzi and film crews on the red carpet leading up to the Opera House, Covent Garden, and he ruefully explains that he's just burst some spots. I try to think of something comforting to say but I know that the press would love to get hold of pictures of Matt in this state.
Instead I just say, 'What happened?' It turns out that Matt's skin often erupts at inopportune moments. Usefully, Matt and David have got a make-up artist on hand to help them look their best in front of the TV cameras and still photographers. 'Excuse me while I get this seen to,' says Matt. Matt's boyfriend Kevin is here, a model of calm, reassuring support. David lives in a small but beautifully interior-designed Belsize Park onebedroom flat, themed round the colour pink. It's verging on flamboyant, but with judicious lighting and lots of velvety materials the space feels luxurious and classy. On the wall hangs a large print of a photograph of the actor Sir Michael Gambon by David's friend Sam Taylor-Wood, from whom he bought his vintage Mercedes car. The Michael Gambon picture, part of her Crying Men series, is slightly blurred.
David tells me his mum complained that it was out of focus. The last time I was here, a few months ago, there was a Lost In Translation film poster where the Gambon print is now. There are little hillocks of DVDs, many of them unopened box-sets, surrounding David's plasma TV. He sees me eyeing them and says he's stocking up on stuff to watch when they go on tour. 'There's going to be a lot of time to fill,' he says. In fact, they're about to embark upon the biggest live comedy tour ever: over two hundred dates throughout the next fourteen months, breaking only for Christmas and New Year and then the summer. David is putting the finishing touches to his outfit - black suit, red shirt, black tie - a little bit Franz Ferdinand, but slightly more classically elegant. Matt's in a dark pinstriped suit with white shirt and red tie.
They look vaguely coordinated, but not cheesily so. 'What shall we say in our thank-you speech?' asks David, of both myself and his friend and guest for the evening James Corden, an actor he met while filming the TV comedy-drama Cruise of the Gods in 2002. 'I could make a joke about sleeping with married women.' This is a reference to the front-page Sunday tabloid story claiming that David had been named as the 'other man' in an underwear model's divorce papers. She's claiming that her two-night affair with David, or as the legal document calls him 'a well-known public figure', is one of her irreconcilable differences with her husband, but she also makes it quite clear, in the lengthy story she's sold to the paper, that David didn't know she was married when he dallied with her after they met at an Agent Provocateur party. I think it might be quite a good idea for David to show he's not fazed by this woman's kiss-and-tell story and tell him so. Matt isn't sure. 'I don't know.
You'll be giving the story more publicity.' 'Yes, maybe,' says David, 'but if I say something funny about it, it might stop the 3AM girls and everyone else from asking me about it.' The make-up woman has been busy working on Matt for a few minutes. He turns round to face us. His skin has gone a pale shade of green. He sees us all looking a bit doubtful, and checks himself out in the mirror. 'It's green. My face is green .
' None of us know what to say. 'Have you seen t.