12.30am: "I know!" says Vikram, who is dressed, unconvincingly, as Agnetha from ABBA in honour of Eurovision. "What about Ulrika Jonsson?" Point out that although Ulrika may have turned in hilarious performance on last week's Shooting Stars, really isn't much else recommending her for post of Mayor. "She's fit though," says Vikram. Try to explain this is important political post not Miss World, but my loose-fitting Benny-from-ABBA glue- on beard intervenes and end up saying something bit like "Brabbbumpleshug".
1.20am: Dylan wants Howard Marx for Mayor of London, I want Red Ken, Vikram is still going on about bloody Ulrika-ka-ka-ka. Anna wants George Clooney ("not for Mayor of London... I just want him").
2.20am: Beard starting to itch. Should have come as the clean-shaven Bjorn, but Benny was always my favourite because of way he bounced up and down on piano stool. Also means cannot snort any drugs because impossible to clear pathway through beard to nose. Can just about manage spliff, but worry once it gets near to roach in case set self on fire. Eurovision hits blasting out of stereo - Dylan (dressed as Sandy Shaw) keeps playing "Making Your Mind Up" over and over.
3am: Don't know quite why it is essential to resolve Mayor of London question before can go to bed (suspect it may be something to do with the drugs), but it is. Go through various options: Richard Branson (too busy and bit of capitalist bastard), Simon Hughes MP (quite nice bloke but must remember is Yellow Tory), Glenda Jackson (cool), Jeffrey Archer (start laughing really, really side-splittingly hard until remember that British public useless at elections and frequently vote in worst person/party).
3.10am: Can't get bloody beard off. Every time look in mirror, just see Richard Branson looking back, which is all v well if one is R Branson. Try cutting a bit with scissors, then realise will probably need to shave.
3.35am: Emerge depressed from bathroom to round of applause. "It's you, Emma!" says Anna, puzzlingly. "You have to stand for Mayor of London!" Feel sick. "Why me?" I ask. "Cos like, I've got a criminal record," says Dylan, "and Anna and Vikram are too busy with work. Anyway, you understand about politics and you can't keep temping for like the rest of your life. We'll vote for you!" As "Waterloo" plays in background, have horrible vision of standing on election platform with nasty little nerd returning officer reading out, "number of votes for Emma D May, MDMA party... nul points."
4.20am: Have cut most of beard off, leaving clumpy old lady style whiskers around face. At least, don't look like R Branson any more, and can finally get to line of speed. Start shaving, although quite tricky because not used to shaving face. Then suddenly worry that might shave off the tiny real hairs under the fake hair, which will then grow back thick and black and I will have turned into a bloke, into Richard Branson, and then I'll have to be Mayor of London. Shit.
4.21am: Decide to emigrate to Belgium.Reuse content