Sit yourself down. Let me get you a drink. Beer? Wine? Fizz? If it stimulates I've got it, though Charlie's off line until seven. I'm trying to discipline myself. The portfolio's on the table. I'll run through some of the photos with you if you like. No that's fine, I've got the time. Friend of a friend and all that. I'll practice on you for the preview, though I'll have to ham up 'me Northern accent' for that. Lancashire lad made good and all that jazz. The literati love it don't they? Budge up a bit and I'll pick some out.

"This is me on a donkey at Blackpool." You can laugh. It's true! This is where it all started. Esther, she was called. She bit everyone who came near her. Notorious, she was. But I always chose her. I liked the challenge. I was nine when this was taken. Terri - that's my sister - is on the one behind, crying her eyes out. You'd think she was on a mustang the fuss she made. Mum kept shoving her on the damn things, trying to conquer her fear.

Mum took this photo. That's why the tops of our heads are cut off. So, no, it's not in the genes. She's not the dainty type, my mother, as you'll see from the collection. Bull at a gate springs to mind when you think of her and cameras. I remember her yelling "Sit up will you. You're like a bloody sack of potatoes." Talk about embarrassed. Look at the donkey man's face. It says it all. God, I'll never forget that day. But this, believe it or not, is the photo that started my career. I was so pissed off with Mum's efforts, I demanded she give me the camera.

'"Alright, Clever Clogs," she said, "you take the bloody pictures then."

I've never looked back since then - school prizes, local papers, competitions. Then it was London, Sunday mags, books and exhibitions. This is my first solo though.

See that man in the cap, with the fag in his mouth? That's 'Uncle' Leslie. He ended up in prison, for credit card fraud. Doesn't he look the part? Mum used to fancy him at one time, before he went bad on her. She always took out her rollers when he came round. Those were the only times I saw her smile, after Dad had left.

You alright with that beer? Have some fizz. Go on. It's only glorified pop. Grab a clean glass from the side.

Now this is Mum in the breakfast room at the B & B. I reckon she looks like Les Dawson in this one. She gave me a clout around the ear for saying that - that's her idea of witty repartee. Twenty years old and she's still walloping me! But that's how it is up North, between mothers and sons. Not that you'd know about that kind of thing.

The B & B was right on the Front. She was running it on her own by this time. Dad had run off with Pauline. She was a cosmetics rep. who used to stay at our place. She always gave Mum free samples. Unfortunately, she was giving Dad a few as well. Only in Blackpool, eh? Terri tried to help Mum out when he left but she was always in a mess with men herself. She's a hairdresser, the pinnacle of aspiration up there. But this is a quintessential picture of Mum I think. It's raw, I was young and green when I took it, but it says it all for me, about that time in my life. It's part of a sequence, called Blackpool Style. Dear old Ma. There she is in her pinny, suety arms folded, cigarette smouldering in the ashtray, rollers firmly anchored. I think she forgot she had them in half the time. She always had four small ones at the front for the curls, which made her look like a sheep, then four big ones on the top, for 'lift' she said. She hardly ever took them out so what's the point, eh? Only on Saturday nights did we see the fruits of her labour, when she went down The Anchor with her mates. All the women in Blackpool metamorphose on a Saturday night - from cockroaches to butterflies, and back again. Sorry? I'm a bit hard am I? You should try living up there, mate.

I called this photo A Bit of a Lift. It won a prize in the Lancashire Evening Post and ended up being syndicated to the nationals.

You alright for drink? Help yourself, it's easier. There's plenty more in the fridge. Now these are quite interesting, taken just after I married Georgina. What? Your joking mate. Her sister's a friend of your wife? Bloody hell, I'd better watch what I say. How about, Georgina's a prize fucking bitch for walking out on me. And that's on the record. I don't give a toss what you write to be honest. In fact she ought to know how I feel about her buggering off. She didn't bloody listen at the time, that's for sure. No second chances with Georgie.

Where are we. Yeah, now these are after the wedding. No, none of my lot came to that. We did Chelsea Town Hall then a party at Quirks. Everyone was there - unbelievable bash. We went up North afterwards, on our way to Scotland and Georgie's parent's place. We took Mum and her new boyfriend out for a meal, at a hotel in the Lakes. She loved it, all the tapestries and polished wood, stags' heads and what have you. I remember her being dead impressed by the real serviettes. All that washing! I paid for her to stay the weekend with her chap, as she'd missed the wedding.

How did Georgie fare? What, being dumped in at the deep end you mean? I suppose it was a bit rough on her, this hot house flower of a Sloane wrenched out of context into the unknown. Hey that rhymes! Multi-talented or what. She did her best, poor love, but she hadn't a clue how to talk to them. My Mum tried to mother her, God bless her. That really floored Georgie. She'd been at boarding school most of her life. She'd no idea what 'mothering' was.

It was kind of deliberate if I'm truthful, throwing them together like that. I was curious to see what happened. I wanted to study the juxtaposition. I knew there'd be some great material, and there was - the way they laughed, the way they ate, the different textures of skin, hair, hands. Like this one, look. There's Mum's hand with her wedding and engagement ring next to Georgie's divine little cluster. It's engrained, class, don't you think? It's in the pores, in the follicles. You can buy some improvement but you can't hide the raw material. Better not to try too hard in my experience. Or learn to turn it on and off. It can have its uses, as I said. Georgie always liked a bit of rough in her bed, for a while anyway.

When did we divorce? Christ, now you're asking. There's been another one since then. Five, maybe six years ago. Yeah, I do see the kids but it's not easy with my work. I'm often away these days. Actually I asked them to come to France with me this summer. They said non! They wanted to be with their friends. Thanks very much kids, I love you too. You've got three have you? A real bloody masochist. Mind you, I reckon I did my best work at that time, when Georgie was still around and the kids were little. I used to moan and groan about it all the time - the noise, the mess, the interruptions - but I missed them something rotten once they'd gone. It was like I couldn't see and feel anymore, I mean really see and feel. Trouble is you only realise when it's gone. The second marriage? God, no, no kids from that. She just took the money and ran.

This is my Weight Watchers Sequence. I photographed Mum throughout the course. She was very depressed at the time, downing pills like smarties. She spent her life on and off the damn things. Terri had just got divorced and couldn't cope with the kids. Mum was looking after them. The B & B was struggling too. Yeah, you're right, EU directives did knock tourism for six. Rightly so in my opinion. Those Blackpool beaches, my God. The sand's ninety per cent pulverised shit.

I used a lot of light in these, to enhance the silvery stretch marks on her thighs and arms. She's wearing a tight dress so you can see the loose skin under her clothes. See here, like folds in the material. Her face was amazing. As she lost weight, it just sort of collapsed, like a spent balloon. That's where I got the idea for the title, Collapsing Lives.

She was upset by the photos although she'd asked me to take them. She wanted to record her weight loss. You can't win in this game can you? I just bundled them in some folders at the time although an idea was formulating, for a series and exhibition. All the pictures were from the North, people and animals in decline - Aids victims, starving donkeys kicked off the beach, kids from the problem estates. Yeah, it is painful stuff, I suppose. But you have to suppress your own emotion to capture emotion, I always think.

I knew it had potential but I kept the lid on it for a while. I like to let ideas simmer and mature. But Mum found the photos when she visited my flat. I should have kept them hidden properly, I suppose, but I didn't think. She hardly ever came down to London. I didn't encourage her if I'm honest about it.

What happened when she found them? Well, I walked in on her, going through the pictures of herself. She was sitting on the bed, crying and rocking. I eventually won her round with a hug and a Chinese meal. She's always been mad on sweet and sour. Would that all women were so easily pleased, eh? It was five star or nothing for Georgie. Mind you she always liked my wacky cooking - sort of North Lancs meets South East Asia.

This is my final picture of Mum. Amazing really. You'd hardly recognise her. She's weighing about eight stone, no rollers in, wearing a long white dress and yes, with make-up on for once. Mum at her most glamorous. She's in the Chapel of Rest, although I avoided the coffin for the shot. I wanted the audience to work it out for themselves, to appreciate the irony. I'm very pleased with this one, fantastic atmosphere with the candles flickering and the shadows. It's the final part of the Collapsing Lives series.

What would she have made of this exhibition? God, I've never really thought about it, strangely enough. I couldn't have done it if she was alive of course. I suppose she'd be pleased at my success. Maybe not all the contents! She loved to boast about me to the neighbours. She kept all the newspaper cuttings and articles about me, all jumbled up with my school reports, swimming certificates and stuff. I found them after the funeral. It made me cry, to tell the truth. I didn't cry in the hospital or at the crematorium but when I found those cuttings I couldn't stop blubbing. Strange one.

She was amazed at the money I made more than anything - from just taking pictures. She couldn't comprehend that. She had such a hard life herself. What does Terri think? That I really don't know. We haven't kept in touch since I moved south. And that's sixteen years now. No, I tell a lie. She invited me to her second wedding but I was away on an assignment. She seems happy enough, got her own hairdressers and another kid. She sent me a photo of him in his high chair. Half his head was missing of course. I just hope she's more careful with the scissors.

To be honest I never really think much about the north, or the family. I've nothing in common with anyone up there any more. I'm not sure I ever had. I've always felt sort of peripheral, unsure where I belong. I live like a gypsy a lot of the time. But, yeah, you're right about mum, poor old love. She didn't have a lot going for her but she always did her best.

That's it then? Sure you've got enough? Fancy another drink? What about a line? I'll take you down to 192 if you like. Have you been there, in Kensington Park Road? That Bridget Jones woman drinks there and Jonny Depp's been known to drop by. Guy Ritchie was in the restaurant the other day apparently. No, I'm alright for time. Actually, I'm at a bit of a loose end this Bank Holiday. We can talk a bit more about the exhibition if you like. I wouldn't mind hearing what Georgie's up to, if you've seen her lately. You probably know more about the bloody kids than I do. What? Oh come on, just give her a ring for Christ's Sake. Say you got caught up. Or maybe she'd like to come along. Yeah, do that. Ask her to come along. Go on, it'll be my shout.