Sunday 12.01am: "Living with a smoker can kill you," says Ed, Tinky-Winky's new boyfriend, as if this is news. We know this. There was time when Dylan was so stoned that he set fire to sofa and lay back watching it burn, with disaster only averted when Anna woke up to find her hair on fire. "She's never had a fringe since," I explain to Ed, passing him an enormous cobra-length bong, legacy of Dylan's now-defunct relationship with the loaded Lady Camilla. Then there was the time when Dylan drove up the M4 the wrong way screaming at other terrified drivers that they were all lunatics. "Then there was the time that Emma... " Dylan starts in his own defence, but is interrupted by taking in huge lungful of pure grass smoke and then coughs nasty black bits everywhere. Ed looks alarmed. "Smoking kills," Dylan says, casually. Then he goes pale. "God! What if I'm, like, really dying?" he splutters. "God, I can't get my breath, can't breathe, my lungs are full of... black bits." Anna takes command. "Bong," she says, like a scary hard-nosed paramedic in Casualty asking for scissors. "Now, Dylan, INHALE!" she shouts, stuffing the end bit into his mouth and then lifting her finger off the hole at last minute so he fills up with smoke like a gas chamber. Dylan relaxes and starts to look sleepy- eyed. "Whooah!" he says. "Is that, like passive smoking? I just inhale and smoke fills me up? It's mega... "

2am: Whole room is now full of smoke. "The Marrakesh of South London," sighs Anna, proudly. Dylan wittering on about some article he read about pheromones and trying to use it as excuse for why he never washes himself rather than admitting that he is, in fact, just gross. "Yeah, but they did this study and found that we all emit odourless chemicals and that's like part of sexual attractiveness," he explains. "If they're odourless, how come you stink?" says Anna, uncharitably.

3am: Dylan is fixated on the subject of pheromones. Ed, it turns out, is a research scientist, and Dylan is convinced that he must understand the chemistry of sex appeal. The article he read said that women had been asked to wipe sweat from their armpits and then the scientists froze it and then wiped the chemicals on other women's brows and then they started menstruating in synch. "What do you think, Ed?" Dylan asks. Ed looks like he'd like to go home. "Er, actually I really specialise in chaos theory," he says, shooting a lost "Help me!" look at Tinky-Winky, who has passed out on the floor.

4am: "Dylan, no!" Anna shouts suddenly, seeing D advancing from the bathroom with a toilet paper swab. "Just, like, dab it under your arms," says Dylan. "Then Emma can wipe it on her face." Look at him aghast. "Hang on," I say. "Why can't I be the one whose armpits get wiped instead of being the dab-on-the-face person?"

Then realise am actually entertaining the possibility of anyone exchanging perspiration and am clearly turning into crackpot. "Look, I'll dab under my arms," volunteers Dylan. Ed is now actually kicking T-W in attempt to wake him up. Vikram forced to wrestle D to floor as he makes worrying move towards the removal of his T-shirt. "You're sick," I tell him. "I know," he says.

5am: Ed and T-W have gone for a walk, thankfully. The final straw came when Dylan started trying to mop beads of sweat from the sleeping T-W's brow. Trying to decide whether to a) stay up chemically-aided and go to new Sunday morning club which opens at 7 or b) get some sleep for once. Concerned about latter option in case D tries to sneak in in the night and dribble some of his sweat on me. "Living with a smoker can be extremely bloody irritating," I say to Anna, who nods. Dylan has set fire to his camouflage trousers.