Sunday is the cruellest hangover of all

You never know - maybe I’ve been a good boy and not drunk more than a small Jacuzzi of alcohol? And maybe there are such things as flying pigs, or politicians with integrity. As long as I’m up and about for the ‘Where did they go wrong’ panel starting at ten. Personally I know where I went wrong: dirty martinis in the hotel bar with Agent Phil (his trousers are actually supposed to look like that), Mr Rickards and anyone else suicidal enough to be doing tequila shooters at that time in the morning.

I have been given instructions to wish hello to Shirley and Angus Marshall, who are friends of the guy who sits in my favourite corner seat at INoGITCH. They won’t know me from Adam (as he also had a beard, and I’ll probably be naked, except for a leaf liberated from the cheese plant in the dining room), but that’s what conventions are for, isn’t it? Meeting naked strangers who smell of last night’s booze?