Last week your assets were frozen following an order in bankruptcy proceedings in the High Court. Not a lot of fun that, especially since you are at present in Australia, a place from which people used to find it rather tough to return when they had problems with debt.
Your problems arose when Landhurst Leasing, a company that specialises in supplying classic cars, found it had not been paid for furnishing you with some fancy motor or other. Apparently, letters and reminders remained unanswered, perhaps even unopened. The company was forced to take drastic action to recover its money, so it petitioned for bankruptcy.
The odd thing is, your debt seems so trivial. For us, your army (well, platoon) of fans, pounds 5,000 may be a substantial sum. For the man who raised millions for the starving by going on telly and swearing at people, however, it is the equivalent of the small change we pop into charity boxes.
But unless it is raising it for other people, money has never been your strong point. Not that you are short of it: anyone who has been to your house in Chelsea or your place in the country and clocked your jaw-dropping collection of art will attest to that. And although you went for a year without pay while working for Live Aid, there have been 10 years of television company directorships, consultancies and book advances since then. Which is just as well, as these days your records rarely outsell Dana's.
But you are a bit absent-minded about worldly matters. Your reaction to the order - 'I don't even remember renting a car in London'- is hardly surprising. Recently you forgot to put your shoes on when you and the wife stepped out to a pop awards ceremony. Your approach to personal hygiene is legendary: no one develops a hairstyle resembling the kind of shrubbery found on a British Rail cutting by lavishing attention on it. Indeed, you have gone on record as saying you only take a bath once a year; news that confirmed everything my mum always suspected about pop singers.
It's good to hear that you're confident you can sort this one out. Nevertheless, a word in your ear, Bob, (or perhaps I won't come that close). Isn't it time you got a whizzo financial adviser, someone who'll make sure the bills get paid and leave you free to cultivate your endearing distaste for material things? So pick up the phone, (that's the little device plugged into the wall that rings to attract your attention), dial your old Live Aid buddy Paul McCartney and ask him if he knows of a good accountant. He's bound to give you the thumbs-up.