John Lyttle

Dear Diary,

Went to Paz's New Year Eve's Party. Possibly. Dazed and confused. Have lost 48 hours and sheer body-stocking Aunt Sadie sent me for Christmas. Crawled downstairs. Front door off hinges. Mayan temple in garden toppled. Gnomes modelled on members of Hanson Awol. Nipples sore.

Neighbours have left note, dated 1 Jan, threatening to phone Swat team and Anne Atkins. (Left number with them in case of emergencies). Sick as a supermodel after dessert. Did I have a good time?

Forgot annual resolution. Will ponder once vision clears.

Later. Found next door's teenage son comatose in basement. Returned him to worried and unattractive pale parents. Many heartfelt tears and promises of physical violence. Last time I babysit for anyone.

Am glad Andrew is at mother's. Footmarks on bathroom ceiling would take some explaining.

Resolve to resolve as soon as police finish dusting for prints.

Anne Atkins rang. Hissy fit to burst. Doesn't appreciate hysterical calls from strangers in the dead of night. Told her that's Telegraph readers for you. Was shocked to hear her take the Lord's name in vain. Apologised for wasting her time: "Well, your field of expertise is missing daughters, not missing sons." Repented the words the second uttered, despite rehearsing them all morning. Atkins cursed like a drill sergeant and slammed down phone. If only people knew!

Will consider resolution moment Jehovah's Witnesses wake up and leave.

Found vile, foul-tasting, green, snake-like thing clogging mouth. Tongue?

Do resolution once former Tory Minister Who Cannot Be Named frees himself from leather harness in kitchen. Would help except hands still shaking. Will just have to ring his wife himself.

In words of the Blessed Celine, it's all coming back to me now. Remember frightening other boys at Paz's party by acting out scene in I Know What You Did Last Summer where psychopath sneaks into sleeping heroine's boudoir and gives her bad haircut. Can still hear the screams. Then lurched from guest to guest defending 17-year-old son of Cabinet minister caught dealing dope. Really, how else can young put themselves through higher education today? If I were his father I'd blame the Government. Recall reassuring Paz that his new Westwood didn't make him look fat - his fat made him look fat. Never darken doorstep again, etc.

Don't know how I fetched up at Fridge. Do know that when Muscle Mary, whose slingbacks I trod on, shrieked "And who the f*** do you think you are?" I was stumped for an answer. Finally admitted to being Michael Barrymore. Hate multiple choice questions.

Will fix on resolution once tongue specialist completes examination.

Lynch mob gather in street. Lurk behind net curtains as ringleader - Mrs Tunney, pensioner from number 45 who's always boasting she lives on Pedigree Chum - works mob into frenzy (something about "burn the witch") and promises of Battenberg slices after. They should use the old cow's rock cakes to break the windows while they're at it.

Andrew rang. Demanded to know why house was on BBC evening news. Asked whether national or local. Andrew ballistic. Coming back this instant. Tell him, if he has a second, to stop and purchase a small skip.

Says he's going to kill me.

Mob swelling. Those near end of the queue - it's a very orderly mob - have brought sleeping bags, little Union Jack flags and bomb-making equipment. Makes you proud to be British.

Resolution after I've made riotous assembly tea.

Andrew arrived. Scattered mob by telling them Fergie: Worrier Princess was starting on telly. World-class rage followed. Was right - footmarks on bathroom ceiling did take some explaining. And why was first-floor loo blocked with Bjork CDs? (Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time ... a good idea at any time, actually.)

Finally compelled to unhook TV and commit beloved's favourite crime against nature. Bingo. Now snuggled up, grunting in sleep and dribbling from mouth. Suddenly feel awfully Marge Simpson: he is truly the wind beneath my duvet. And just look what happens when he leaves me alone. Yawn. Check tongue. Glows in dark. Hmm.

Doh! Wait, wait. Lights on. Nearly forgot. Message/ manifesto/ motto for new year.

Must spice up my life.

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