Sunday 12.01am: Lock-in at local. Too skint for clubbing so have ended up spending pounds 20 down the pub instead. Heavy hammering on door from outside. "Heads down, please," says stout Jamaican landlady, peering out from behind dirty net curtain. "It's your friend," she says to me, accusingly. Dylan ducks in under chain on door, so stoned he's oblivious to landlady's wrath. "Whassup?"

12.15am: D produces tatty sheet of A4 with D Thomas: Curriculae Vitum emblazoned on the top. We look at it in amazement. "It's, like, my CV," says Dylan. "Thought you guys could help me, you know, polish it up."

12.16am: Vikram is first to speak after second's stunned sitcom silence. "You're applying for a job?" "Yep," says Dylan. "What happened to becoming an East End drugs baron?" I ask. D says there's been a few problems with that, like all the dope he bought with the money from advance orders, has, erm, gone. "Gone where?" says Anna. "I sort of smoked it," says Dylan, with a nervous giggle.

12.17am: "Let's get this straight," I say. "You have smoked eight ounces of hash?" Dylan nods. "That's why I need to get a job, to pay it all back." Rub eyes trying to dispel image of piles of cash going up in smoke. "So, what's the job, Dyl?" says Vikram bitterly. "Policy Director of Release?" D smiles winningly. "Stand us a drink, mate," he says.

12.30am: Vikram reads out: "Senior management position at Chelsea eaterie." Dylan shrugs. "King's Road Burger King," he says. "I had three burgers on my epaulettes... one more and you're like King Burger or something."

12.35am: "What's this?" says Anna. Under "relevant experience" Dylan has typed: "Many years of experience in the retail drugs industry." (Not exactly Glaxo, says Vikram). "Research into addictive personalities with small sample group" (that's us apparently). "Experience in drugs counselling..." (Went for six months, says D.) "Are you applying to be a drugs counsellor?" I ask, incredulous. "Sort of," says D.

1am: Jamaican landlady chucks us out after Dylan keeps trying to switch juke-box back on to play "Candle In The Wind" the original, "because it's like really sad for Norma Jean to have her song taken away".

2.30am: Dylan's luxury housing association pad, knee deep in pickled onion Monster Munch packets. D skinning up with minuscule amount of remaining gear. "You mean, you've even smoked our dope, that we gave you our hard- earned cash for?" says Anna. "Aversion therapy," says D. "Thought it might help me give it up for good. Just gave me a craving for pickled onion Monster Munch."

2.45am: Have scribbled all over Dylan's CV until he sounds like young aspiring Richard Branson without ultra-capitalist tendencies. Offer to type it out for him at work. "Now, where's your covering letter?" I ask him. D says he's already done it. "Well, give us a look, then," says Anna. "No!" says Dylan, firmly. "You'll only laugh."

3.00am: Doorbell rings. "Dylan, you little bastard, I know you're in," says East End gangster voice outside. "Where's my fucking gear..." D locks himself in bathroom like small child hiding from parents. We all keep very still for about 20 minutes.

3.20am: Spot envelope on floor addressed to Mr T Blair, 10 Downing Street, London. "We really shouldn't open it," says Anna. What the fuck is Dylan doing writing to Tony Blair?

3.21am: Hold letter over kettle steam. Slides open easily. Inside is the following: "Dear Mr Blair, I would like to apply for the job of Drugs Czar. I think I have a range of relevant skills and experience..."