Apparently Giles is one hell of a salesman, and the Portuguese Moidos is in trouble. It is with both these delirious quotes rolling around my head that I lie ill in bed, shouting this down to my chauffeuse who is typing for me. (I have no desire to have her amusingly mishear what I shout, or for her to subversively change what I am typing. That would be too easy. Easy humour is why the Roman Empire fell - sorry to anyone halfway through book eight of The Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire by the stamp guy). My chauffeuse looks surprisingly like folk-singer Beth Orton from the waist down, and even more surprisingly like her from the waist up. I have to pinch myself (cos it hurts so good) and remind myself that I live surrounded by famous people; I inhabit a life where I have gargled the salty semen of two-time Oscar winner and former Secretary General to the United Nations, Peres De Cuellar, and/or have nuzzled in the individually conditioned pubic hairs of Mary Stuart Masterson.

As the least famous person in my cadre of despised acquaintances (I am, after all, only Idi Amin's Ugandan/Saudi translator, and not a particularly good one at that, as I speak neither Ugandan or Saudi; I think he likes me more for what I can teach him about the board game Talisman), I am often shunned and rejected by its more famous members. It's just a game they play to placate their Hollowood egos. They love me really, as everyone does. They worship me as a godlike figure (except for the atheist members of our group like [insert name of American TV evangelist]).

I'm lying ill in bed, and none of them have come to visit me, except Beth Orton, who only visits me cos I pay her. (Folk singers are whores and would do anything for money). I have [funny illness] and am [amusing symptoms]. It would be great if it weren't for [hilarious downside]. I'm incredibly tired all the time, and would much rather be in bed than having to stumble breathlessly to the bathroom and to the kitchen for food. I've decided a) not to eat food from the bathroom any more, and b) to shit in my bed and make Beth clean it up. (She owes me: she refused to bury my dog, so I had to cremate him, but I had no wood, or other fuel, so I had to hold a lighter up to him, and burn him bit by bit. It wasn't a particularly pleasant experience, but it is useful to know that after an hour or two being dried out, dead dogs do burn with a lot of heat and light).

One quote: "My friend's dad has a bazooka." .... "It doesn't work, obviously."

I am also sweating too much.