Andy Richardson: It's time for me to step out from the shadows

And there I am, on the B-side of Radiohead's Fake Plastic Tree. You can hear me clapping and cheering in a yam-yam 'gooo oorrnn' brogue during the recording of a Bullet Proof. I Wish I Was in the bowels of Oxford Street's 100 Club.

And there I am, too, look, in that documentary on BBC Two. I'm standing right at the back, looking at my shoes while the camera is trained towards me. That's right, so nobody knows it's me. You'd never know, would you?

I've spent 25 years avoiding the spotlight. I've forged a career out of trying to try to stay on the sidelines, while making other people look good. Me and the spotlight are like salt and a slug. Attention is the fly in my ointment, the seven-minute Cozy Powell drum solo in my three minute rock tune.

I'm the anti-Piers Morgan, the one who'd rather do the work than grab the attention. I'm the Didier Deschamps, rather than the Eric Cantona; the Rosa Parks rather than the Beyoncé. The quiet one, if you will. The one who tweets: 'Chips on the floor. Man stops. Dog eats chips. Dog smiles. Both walk on….' because that's what happened. Check my 18,000 tweets: you won't find one that says: 'Hi Karimba. Dontcha just love Fridays. I love you guys. You're the nuts'.

When I'm in a room with someone else, there's never a competition to be centre of attention. I'll do anything to avoid it.

I read a book last year about introverts. It was called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. I'm not sure why I read it. It told me a bunch of stuff I already knew: that extroverts are energised by being at the heart of things and introverts are, well, quiet. Who knew?

There are times when I really ought to have emerged from my shell and said a few words. I tried it, but I felt like Liam Gallagher and that's not good. I won an award once – I know, I know: I told you I'm no show off, and look what I've just done. I walked to the front of the room, received a cheque for £500, two magnums of Champagne and a certificate of some description. The man who presented my unreconstructed 25-year-old self with the award nodded at me, in the direction of the microphone.

I stepped forward, the room went quiet. I could feel the anticipation. And then I realised. The microphone hadn't been switched on.

"Thanks mom," I mumbled, and the audience looked puzzled, as though I were a ventriloquist mouthing some weird jabba talk without actually talking.

I'm getting married later this year and I'm going to break the habit of a lifetime. I'm going to stand up in front of a room full of people and speak to them for more than a minute. It'll be like taking an ice bath, I'm already shaking at the prospect. I won't prepare anything, I'll shoot from the hip, like John Wayne: rat-tat-tat-tat. And then they'll take our photo.

In years to come, for the first time ever, there'll be a picture of me when I'm not looking away, looking embarassed or being just plain shy.

Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. That's me. And do you know what, I like it like that.