NME magazine placed me at number 28 in their ‘Top 50 Coolest People’ of 2003 because I was supposed to have said, ‘When you’re climbing a mountain you don’t stop halfway and start sucking your own cock.’ I suspected the real reason for my favouritism was they wanted to wind up our singer because he wouldn’t play ball. He preferred to get in bed with the more rock-orientated Kerrang! magazine.

Justin got sick of the personal attacks on him and developed a persecution complex, and the NME vultures just licked their lips (though it would be more accurate to liken them to King Kong, and Justin to the damsel in distress, as I’m convinced that they secretly loved him). All the while they would compliment my moustache and ‘youthful’ virility, though I was clearly older and punier than our iron-pumping front man. I was perceived as the band mascot, the odd-looking underdog that you’re supposed to empathise with or feel sorry for.

But that didn’t stop me defending the band’s honour, along with the rest of the guys. We used MTV, the style mags and the world’s music press as our launch pad against NME’s scathing reviews and barbed asides. Of course, we were on a hiding to nothing. Radiohead and U2 had both similarly tried going to war with the publication before eventually relenting. It was very much a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face. Admittedly they were just ‘groupies with pens’, but the magazine was the industry standard. Plus, let’s face it, not talking to music critics is a bit like not paying your gas bill: they’ll only cut you off in the end, leaving you to freeze to death.

It all started at one of our early showcase gigs, when we were pitching for a record deal. We got absolutely slated, with Justin in particular coming in for some stick. The review, penned by Mark Beaumont, concluded that the only people who’d still like the band in a year’s time would be ‘Japanese tourists and retards’.

The tide turned when Darknessmania swept the country a few months later, and NME, in their innate wisdom, changed their tune, utilising their own unique brand of investigative journalism: how do you make your own cat suit? Is it glam metal or hair metal? Is it cock rock or peacock rock? Basically they didn’t have a clue, but as always they got their knickers in a twist about our hipness factor: perhaps we were just about un-cool enough to be cool? Or perhaps we weren’t? Without our co-operation, they were forced to cobble together features from second-hand sources, just enough to justify a front cover mind you, motivated as they were by a circulation war with Kerrang!. (We joked at the time that we’d consider talking to them if they did a commemorative Darkness issue and adjusted the lettering from ‘N.M.E.’ to ‘M.E.N.’, but the advertisers wouldn’t let them.)

One piece in particular rhapsodised over Justin’s ability to marry the poetry of Morrissey and showmanship of Dave Lee Roth while concluding that the merits of yours truly could be summed up in one word: Saxon. I was just tickled to be mentioned, but when I read the piece out to the guys later, Justin’s face broke into a grin that looked like it would happily eat as much shit as you’d care to shovel his way. And with that shit-eating grin plastered firmly across his mug he was determined to rub NME’s nose into the leftovers.

We were backstage at the Reading Festival in August 2003, weaving our way through the press caravans and marquees, fulfilling our promo commitments after a triumphant set. The editor of NME, Conor McNicholas, appeared out of nowhere, a little wobbly on his feet. It was early evening backstage and no one else seemed to be around. ‘Justin!’ he exclaimed, ‘I am so sorry!’ He literally fell to his knees and clasped his hands together in entreaty: ‘Please forgive me, make peace with NME.’

In our surreal universe nothing was surprising, but I’ll admit even we were caught off guard. Perhaps that would excuse Justin’s retort: ‘Fuck off, just F-A-C-K O-F-F, you waste of fucking space. I will never talk to NME, you’re all a bunch of cunts, fuck off!’ He was rabid, livid and probably one or two other words ending in the letters ‘id’. They had to pretty much drag him off and calm him down.

The conflict was undeniably one-sided. I almost felt sorry for the stunned editor. He had tried to take a light-hearted approach to the situation – a helpless yogi pitched against the abominable snowman. Before I knew it, we were whisked into the BBC tent for a TV interview and it wasn’t until later at the hotel bar that the events of the day really sank in.

Looking back, it was more than a little odd. NME begging to get into bed with (officially) the un-coolest band in the land. And, of course, me recounting this tale isn’t the smartest move either, as it’s sure to backfire. These days, if you crave success you’re expected to crawl to the press and instead here I am relating a tale about Conor McNicholas. So what will I do after the inevitable slating in NME? Whatever happens, it’s reassuring to know I can always set a stall up outside Madame Tussauds, and flog the book to Japanese tourists and retards.