I have hardly any friends who aren't gay

I know people went to laugh at my bed and to jeer at it. Still, at least they actually went to see it.

Criticism on my works is like this: you've worked hard all of your life, you went to Oxford, and you've done this and that, and you're an art critic. Your job is to unravel the "secret" or whatever, and you come across an entity like me. It's going to piss you off. Because there's no great secret, what you see is what you get, and anyone can understand what I'm doing. So, it's almost like I make this critic-person redundant, just by my attitude, and they resent me for that.

I've got over so much. Mum wouldn't want anything to come into my life that would make me fragile again

Because of the amount of press attention, people went to see this dirty bed, as if it was a freak show. But when they got there, they saw something else - the bed, stuff on the walls, whatever. For the Tate, it's the highest attendance they ever received for the Turner Prize show. There was a massive queue, and when you got into my bit, you couldn't move.

I don't ask for an apology because it's only tomorrow's fish-and-chip paper.

I found that life has to be edited to continue.