A lot of prostitutes come in and we have hair a hairdresser who comes in to do men's hair. Every Sunday, in the middle of all this, I do the church service. It works. About six months later I was in McDonald’s. There was a guy who [I could tell] was an alcoholic. I got him a drink and a burger and started talking to him. I ended up getting him into [NA] meetings and he got clean. When I started to get lots of media interest, it was difficult. But now I know what God’s called me to do: open my mouth around social justice issues and give the gospel. I don’t really care whether people like me. I’ve only got what God’s given me to use, so I don’t apologise for it really.

I didn’t break any laws – I did my best anyway. The police tried to arrest me once in a car park – I wasn’t brilliant at not hugging people, because the guys I was hugging were dying. On one street where I was delivering food parcels, three men under 40 killed themselves in three weeks. During Covid, everything was shut. Even the churches were furloughing people. But we’re Church on the Street, so that’s where our church was and is – so we found ways to stay open. We have our own counsellors, hot food, a food bank, showers, a needle exchange, washing machines, opticians, Citizens Advice. And we have prayer and Bible study, right in the middle of all that. On a Sunday, we have our Sunday services. When I was homeless, on my first night ever sleeping on the street, I went into a church. They had tea and biscuits and stuff. I was shaking, because if I didn’t drink, I could have a fit. They were nice people, but they couldn’t wait to get rid of me.

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I have been fortunate not to be doing really big long sentences. I call it a blessing but on the other hand I think I have done a life sentence in my head. I had many guns. In the world where I was working it was so easy to get firearms." I somehow drove the car to a nearby industrial estate and, probably for the first time since I was a little boy, I prayed. It was a demand more than a prayer: “God, if you’re real, you’d better help me!” I got no reply. I know he’s never acted before but he has the same mental health traits as me and seems to cope with them in the same way as I do – except I’m not the heavyweight champion of the world. I met a guy in church who had just come out of prison. He said his prison chaplain had told him Jesus died for his sins, but he didn’t understand what that meant. He’d been to loads of churches, but no one had been able to explain it to him. He died two years later, because he damaged himself with alcohol and drugs, and I never told him that I knew, right from the moment I first saw him, that he was the man who raped me.

I get more death threats as a Christian than I did when I was doing the other [criminal] stuff! The things that have been levelled at me did upset me: that I’m just a social worker and I’m not giving the gospel. I just think they’ve misunderstood the gospel. When they got me out the door, I heard them bolt it behind me. I walked down the street, and a guy in a shop doorway asked: “Where are you going?” I said: “I don’t know.” He said: “Come and sit here.” He wrapped his quilt around me, put his hat on my head and poured cider into my mouth until the shakes stopped. It's impossible to visit Church on the Street and not be deeply moved by the work the organisation does for those in need. It is an extraordinary place ... 'HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES, from the Foreword I met Jesus in the shop doorway, not in the church. Where else would he have been? I wanted to be part of a church where Jesus was in the shop doorway, and it didn’t exist. I have been arrested for every serious offence you can think of," he admits with candour. They were leading the life of hurting other people, so drug dealers or whatever.It would be amazing if he finished his boxing career and came and did this – you never know, he could choose to.” By 17 he was an alcoholic and drug addict and his life spiralled into chaos over the next few decades. He became a coldhearted, muscle-bound drug dealer who operated in Liverpool, Manchester and Glasgow with major crime gangs. He writes in a colloquial style, no doubt to create a sense of authenticity. You have to get used to such sentences as “I began talking to my new pal the Holy Ghost. . .” Yet he has a degree in theology from Manchester University. Eventually, a breakdown and several miraculous encounters led him to find hope and healing in Jesus. I was in a homeless hostel, and it was the first time in my life that I was not relying on drugs or alcohol. I had these feelings that I didn’t know what to do with. I didn’t know who I was. So l prayed, and I saw a light at the bottom of the bed.