Dom Joly: Tap my phone and you'll be mighty disappointed

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I live in terror of the full list of "celebrities" whose phones the News of the World wanted to tap being made public. What if I'm on it? If they've listened to the things that go on my mobile then I'm sunk. How will I live with the shame, the humiliation? I'll have to move to Australia (at least I can support them in the Ashes then).

Just in case they didn't get round to tapping my phone I won't reveal exactly what terrible secrets they could have uncovered. What I can do, however, is to give you a flavour of the kind of stuff they might have got hold of by taking you through the messages on my mobile this past week.

Monday, 9.32am: I get a message from the people who clean my swimming pool. The Kiwi guy who normally comes on Tuesdays is not feeling well. Can he come on Wednesday? 10.15am: my agent leaves a message. It's National Take Your Dog To Work Day soon. Do I have a dog? Would I like to be involved in some way? 2.45pm: someone leaves a message that consists of him shouting "Hello. I'm leaving a message!"

I go through the three shops that I've recently had to leave my mobile number with and decide that the culprit must be the weird-looking Goth-type youth in the off-licence. I decide to give him a weird look next time to let him know that I know.

Tuesday, 8.32am: a message from someone local who has seen my number on my dog's collar and wants to know if it's really Dom Joly off the telly? 10.58am: it's the framing shop. I can go to pick up my North Korean propaganda posters. I try to think of a plan to get them past Stacey and into my secret cupboard of travel shame.

Wednesday, 11.15am: it's my bank and it is trying to contact me. This can never be good news, so I ignore it. 2.15pm: my mum leaves me a message telling me that her Freeview isn't working. 3.15pm: my mum leaves another message saying that it's working now. 4.10pm: it's Mum again. Channel five is unwatchable. I ring her back and tell her not to worry too much.

Thursday, 9.15am: the pest rings again and shouts "Hello. I'm on the mobile. No, it's rubbish!" and then hangs up. I decide it can't be the Goth as it's too early in the day for him to be up and there were sounds of friends in the background. This rules him out again. I regret making weird faces at him. 4.20pm: a message from my agent. Some cat magazine wants an interview with me about my cat, Dr Pepper, after I twittered about him peeing on my TV remote. I weep gently into my whisky at the decline of my career.

Friday, 10.01am: a message from a neighbour. Our dog has escaped and is staring at the caller's family in a strange way through their kitchen window. Could I come to get him please? 2pm: it's my wife leaving a message to find out whether I've got out of bed yet. She is at the hairdresser and I've been in my office for four hours, writing. Why do I feel guilty? 4.17pm: it's my agent telling me that there's no fee for the cat interview. I realise that I'm going to have to make that Trigger Happy movie soon. 7.32pm: the pest leaves another message. I can't understand most of it as he sounds as if he's in a coffin. I make out the words "Wanker... fat... electricity..." I am confused but starting to think that it might be the Goth again.

Saturday. Nobody calls, no messages. I miss the Goth and realise that I have started to look forward to his calls.

At 7.30pm my commissioning editor at The Independent on Sunday rings: "Where's your column?" I bash this out and send a copy to the News of the World.

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