The Morning After The Night(mare) Before

As an assumed knight of the realm, falling out of one's stately bed this morning was not a pleasant experience. Not just because there was no help there to break my fall.

I landed on my late father's small collection of antique Victorian oil lamps, all of which were alight at the time. I have no idea why.

Somehow I have remained intact and largely unhurt - save some nasty bruising in some delicate areas. Of course, the exquisite flannel pajamas I was wearing were burned clean off, along with 97% of my body hair (I won't tell you where the remaining tuft is, but let's just say that it's starting to chafe a little).

I would, of course, like to apologise for my comments early this morning. They were out of character and predictably, straight out of the bottle I was clutching feverishly at the time. When simply drunk, I am an affable, aimiable sort, who would not cause much trouble to even the most eager of irritants (you know who you are, Christopher Moyles...). However, when I am drunk on the sort of cocktail of spirits I had imbued last night, my "Mr Hyde" side comes to the fore and very often I do not remember what has happened until I read the society pages the following day.

This morning's scene was one of devastation. My study, where I apparently retired to "listen to Rachmaninov and search the interweb for filthy pictures of Moira Stewart," was a shameful wreck.

[I should say that the quotations are from conversations I have had both with my footman, Winkerton, and my cooks - Mrs Bullstrot and Mrs Hamfist.]

Winkerton told me that I proceeded to conduct Rachmaninov's third symphony using a Baguette, pausing only to vomit into a wastepaper basket and scream abuse at a bust of Neville Chamberlain. Apparently I then scoured the house "muttering something about the Daily Mail". When I found the previous weekend's papers, I tore through them until I pulled out one of the free CDs, and returned to my study, whereupon I sang along to a collection of songs by someone called Simply Red.

Winkerton tells me that I then decided to update the blog – which I see is true from the shameful evidence below. I shall be keeping the entry up on the interweb, if only to try and show others the paths not to follow. I am, of course, utterly and terribly ashamed.

For the public record, I did indeed spend three hours with Mr Boris Johnson (whom I firmly believe will be made Lord Johnson of Liverpool one fine, utopian day), and Peter Mandleson. The less said about the latter, the better, however.

We spent a fine evening at the club, going through numerous cheroots and downing port and then spirits like there was no 1845. Jolly nice time of it, we had too. Johnson is a wonderful chap and I’m having a meeting next Tuesday to discuss my invitation to him to be a team captain on next January’s annual Peasant Hunt. He seemed to like the idea, although his assistant (I think it was an assistant, anyway – looked like an harassed underling to me) shouted “You! See you next Tuesday!”. Peasant hunt, I thought.

Spending the evening with Sir Terrance of Wogan in the morrow. Promises to be an amusing occasion. To be sure (I thank you), I’ll be asking him what he keeps under his green pointy hat, and whether he lives at the end of that rainbow with his huge pot of Licence Fee gold…

Pip pip, my dear, sweet old things.

Sir Leonard.