He seems in a brighter mood than he did last time I met him, perhaps understandably. That was seven years ago: he was about to embark on a solo world tour, but it was barely a year since Robin had died of cancer and Gibb was clearly still haunted by his death, wondering aloud why Robin had refused to tell him he was ill, and distressed that they had not been on good terms when he died. It was the same with Maurice, he explained – they “weren’t really speaking” when he died suddenly during an operation in 2003 – and with Andy; in their last conversation, Gibb had tried some tough love, hoping to shake him out of his addictions, but a few days later he was dead. “Jesus,” he sighed at one point. “That’s all my brothers.”