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My grandmother reared me completely. She’s a wonderful person. She’s been loving, caring and a fantastic help. Without her

I wouldn’t be here now. She is one of the closest people to me.

I love her dearly. She wanted me to know who my mother was, and she meant well, but in hindsight I think it caused me more harm. By coming and going, my mother made it very hard for me to trust people. I’d think: “You’re going to leave anyway, so just go.”

When my Aunt Maxine, my mother’s sister, came over from Jamaica, I suddenly had a mother figure in my life. I’m not saying my grandma wasn’t that, but she had children of her own, so it was good my aunt took control of me; wherever she was, I was. But when I was 13 she went to live in America and

I had nobody to steer me again. That’s when I tried to build a relationship with my mother. I’ve tried to do that all my life, but eventually I realised: “This person is not interested.”

Prior to the drugs she probably was more sensitive. But not really. In London she would meet millionaires who said: “Come and marry me.” One man was buying her a house. She wasted it all. She’s got locked up and come out clean, and she’d say: “I’m not going to get back into it.” Then one of her friends would come round and she’d be straight back on it. When my little brother, Ainsley, came along, we had to rescue him, because she was so off-the-wall with it. She was on crack cocaine. I’ve seen her smoke it. Luckily, it’s not my path in life.

I only lived with my mother once, in Maida Vale. That was pretty nice, but she was coming and going all the time, and she never took me to parks or on holiday. It was all about her friends. Or going to drug dens. Once, when I was 14, I skived off school and I was taken to a drug den. I thought it was exciting. The place got raided by the police. In the chaos, her friends told me to lie on a bed and pretend I was asleep. I was told later there was £200,000 hidden under the bed. Her friends were the Yardies.

She went into prison when I was very young. Everything she got in trouble for, she says she never did. My grandma took me to see her, and my mum said: “I don’t want him to come in the room.”

I’ll never forget that. My youngest brother, Jamie, was born in prison. He is the light of her world. I still had to fight with her, saying: “The kid’s got to have a wash and go to school.” But she doesn’t listen. All three of her kids have loved her, yet she can’t see the damage she’s done. She couldn’t help me when I started in music. Then I’d hear about the boyfriend she was taking out for champagne. That hurt. It’s not that she’s a bad person; she just doesn’t know how to be a mother.

She has to be off the drugs now; it’s a condition of her bail. All these so-called friends of hers have gone. I don’t hate her. I feel sorry for her. I’m not angry. You can only be angry with someone you love, and I don’t love her any more. We haven’t spoken for a year. I’m adamant that I’ll never speak to her again.

I was striving to be something from an early age. I was not just a normal child. I could walk in a room and grab people’s attention. My Grandpa Harty loved music, so I grew up listening to Al Green, Aretha, Dionne Warwick. Dance had just come in. The first time I went to a studio, Grandpa took me. I was playing drums, hiding behind them, because I was shy. I knew my dad was a singer. But the person who really inspired me was Shirley. She was one of my mother’s friends from the drug dens. She’d been in a girl band, and she could sing like a bird. She’d also dated George Best. I found her fascinating. I’d hated my life till then — but watching Shirley, I knew I wanted to sing.

I was working in legal publishing and doing my music part-time. I was searching for something, and a turning point came in 2005, when I was in The Monastery, a BBC TV series, and I went into a Benedictine monastery for six weeks. I thought I would end up a Catholic, but when I came out I became a Buddhist. I joined the Kagyu lineage, which is led by the Karmapa. I have a shrine at home. I meditate every morning, and I study the texts. It’s mind training. It’s about not getting too attached. It helps. I can’t fix what’s happened but I can centre myself. I can find my sanity and peace now.

After that I decided to really go for my music. I met a man called Ian Wright, who had his own record label. If I could have chosen my dad, it would have been Ian. He was a fantastic guy. But two years ago he died of pancreatic cancer. It was very sad to lose him, but I still hear him talking to me and guiding me. I’ll always be grateful for his friendship and for his belief in me.

I’m a little sad sometimes. Gran deserves a better lot than life has given her, yet she never grumbles. In her next life an abundance of great things are waiting for her, though I hope before she leaves this planet she gets to enjoy life’s luxuries. She’ll say she already has, that it’s seeing her great grandchildren.

I’ve got great friends, and I want kids one day, when I’m in the right space to care for them. Right now I’m focused on my career. My music helps me in many ways. The more successful I become, the easier it is to move on and forget the past.

Anthoney Wright’s debut album, Feet on the Ground, is out now

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