MIDGE: I’m glad I had kids when I did. I was 31, I’d done the rock-star thing, I’d got the fleet of cars, the eight-bedroom house and done everything I’d dreamt about doingÉ and a whole load more. But it wasn’t enough. There was something missing, and that something was a home life. Some sort of stability. A family.

Unfortunately, the main memory I have of the day Molly was born is one of horror. Horror and panic. Like any new parent, I had no idea how I was meant to cope. I wanted a guidebook. I was 31 but I was still a child. Bizarrely, the chaos of having a child made me feel even more useless and childlike, because I realised I no longer had any control over my life. The baby was in charge. The fact I’d earned a bit of money meant we were lucky enough to have a nurse stay with us for the first few weeks. She taught me and Molly’s mother everything we knew about being parents. Until then we’d both been living in fairyland.

I’ve still got a very working-class — probably a very Scottish — view when it comes to money. The money is there to help, but it doesn’t mean Molly gets everything on a plate. She once came back from school and said: “Dad, the school’s having a skiing trip to Colorado.” I said: “Colorado! For the price I’d be paying for that, I could take the whole family skiing in Italy. No! You can’t go.”

I needed her to understand there was no silver spoon — she was just a few rungs further up the ladder from me and my parents in our Glasgow tenement block.

Mind you, after me and her mother split up, Molly became very adept at getting money out of me. Like any child in that situation, she was very good at playing on my guilt. We split up when Molly was three and, though I say it myself, me and her mother did our level best to make sure Molly didn’t get hurt. That doesn’t stop you feeling guilty. She’d stay with me at weekends and say: “Oh, Mum bought me one of those. Can I have this one too?” I was a soft touch.

When it came to her being in a band, I can’t say I was over the moon about it. I wanted her to get an education, but I was in no position to stop her because that’s exactly what I did when I was her age. I’d managed to get an engineering apprenticeship and dropped out to be in a band. My father was devastated. He drove a bakery van for 40 years and hoped his son would escape the same fate. When I walked away from that apprenticeship, he was heartbroken.

Molly was the same. When she was doing her GCSEs, I’d agreed to pay for her to go this quite fancy school where they taught music and drama. She seemed to be very artistic, so I thought: “Okay, let’s get her some qualifications.” But then she went to the Reading festival. I’d already told her she couldn’t go, but she’d sneakily sorted out some tickets with my manager. She was 15! Just her and a friend camping at this bloody festival! For the first time I decided I wasn’t going to be a soft touch. I’d got four daughters and they’d always been able to wrap me round their little fingers, but this was utter defiance. I told her if she didn’t come home, I wasn’t going to pay for her to go to school.

Well, she didn’t come home. She eventually went to London, got a flat, got a job and formed a band. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s Molly all over. She doesn’t need anyone’s help.

A lot of people assume that I helped her get a record deal. Rubbish! The only thing I did was sign the contract for her, because she was only 17 and too young to sign it herself. Whenever I did give her any advice, she completely ignored me.

Molly’s independence certainly helped her deal with my problems. I drank for a long time. I guess it was just part of being in a band. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the rider. After a while, I was finishing the bottle before I’d got on stage. Then, when my career started going downhill, drink was the first thing I turned to.

I owed the taxman a fortune, I couldn’t get a record deal, but it didn’t matter because the man at the off-licence would have a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Diet Coke waiting for me on the counter. Isn’t it funny? I didn’t mind being pissed, but I didn’t want to get fat.

The fact that Molly and my children saw me in that state is something I’ll always regret. Parents are meant to protect you. All I could do was sob down the phone to Molly. I was falling apart in front of her. I wasn’t one of those guys who needed to sit in the park with winos. I’d drink on my own at home, and drink until there was nothing left or till I’d fallen over. That’s why I took myself off to rehab. I had to kill it dead. And I did. I haven’t touched a drink in two years. When you drink alcohol, you comfort yourself by thinking: “At least I’m only hurting myself.” But drink is like a shotgun blast. Everybody gets hit. I know Molly got hit. But I hope the fact she’s seen what drink can do — what that whole rock’n’roll myth can do — means she’ll steer clear of it. I know she will. She’s too smart.