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They love touring, and have huge stamina for it, sitting on pavements drinking gin, getting tattoos, playing pool, rocking out small-capacity dives and constantly pulling poses (now published as a book by photographer Kenneth Cappello called ).

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‘People were performing dressed like roadies, in Carhartt T-shirts and cargo pants, like Ed Sheeran,’ says Jamie.

‘Then a few bands, The Strokes and The White Stripes, kicked the door down.

‘Or my priorities went right.’ You can’t help but be pleased for him. He’s unusual, certainly (Kate was always going to marry someone happy to wear a silk dressing-gown cord as a tie, as Hince appears to be doing today), but he’s a man, not a boyish Pete Doherty-style disaster.

The consensus from friends is that he is loving and supportive and makes Kate truly happy.

Before meeting Moss, The Kills roughed it for a long time.

‘I squatted for most of my adult life,’ says Jamie.

‘I can only cope with it when it’s bitterly, bitterly cold.’ Jamie Hince laughs at her. He used to carry around a parasol because he said that a suntan was incompatible with rock’n’roll.’ ‘The sun,’ says Alison sententiously, dragging on a cigarette, ‘gives you cancer.’ Like all the best rock bands, The Kills have a touch of Spinal Tap about them.

‘This fruit is, like, closing me in.’ Jamie, 43, is British, with a lived-in face and a South London accent.

The Kills are quite possibly rock’n’roll’s best-kept secret.

Except someone’s gone and blown their cover — Kate Moss, Jamie’s partner of three years and, as of last July, his wife.

Early morning and The Kills are draped across their chairs like recently dis-interred corpses, cringing at the daylight. She’s 33, comes from Florida, and gives off shy, angry vibes, frequently messing up her hair so it hides her face. She flinches when four plates of fruit are put down on a table next to her.