Fame, drugs, the Priory, fishing for goldfish: it happens to us all in the end

Hello. For those of you who have not read my column before I had better bring you up to date with what is going on with my dog Huxley. He has quite serious mental issues at the moment and is seeing a shrink who thinks he has status anxiety.

Hello. For those of you who have not read my column before I had better bring you up to date with what is going on with my dog Huxley. He has quite serious mental issues at the moment and is seeing a shrink who thinks he has status anxiety.

I am generally suspicious of the whole psychiatry thing after I was wrongly diagnosed with "exhaustion" and admitted to the Priory a while back. I was not in the least bit exhausted, simply suffering from a quite severe case of paranoiac depression after a two-week bender on booze and drugs in Lisbon with a well-known Olympic swimmer.

Admittedly, Huxley does seem a bit better after his trips to the couch doctor but you can never really tell what is going on in his head because he's a dog.

I took him off to the river for a chat yesterday but he just got all agitated and had an enormous dump in the river that made a fisherman become very aggressive with me, as though it was my fault. Someone should come up with a decent diagnosis of whatever mental disorder it is that makes angry grown men sit on river-banks hunting goldfish.

I have a friend who is very keen on fishing and it is the one thing that we have never seen eye to eye on. I had the last laugh as he could not find a job here and was forced to go into exile in Newfoundland, in Canada, with his four daughters. His wife comes from there and had had enough of London. The irony now is that he can fish all he wants but is living in the cultural equivalent of the Falklands.

I'm off to visit him in a week's time as I have got to do some filming somewhere bleak and desolate and, having seen the pictures that he sent me, I know that this is the place.

I will try not to gloat too much but one of the scenes involves me frightening an Eskimo, something I have always secretly longed to do. Don't ask me why. I intend to sneak up on one of them when they are fishing in a hole in the ice and set off an air horn. It's my little bit of revenge, made even sweeter by doing it on my friend's icy back door.

My cat Alan has come back to stay with us in the country for three weeks. He never really took to the move down here as he has always been a London cat. His extraordinarily tenacious "dirty protest" finally won the day and he moved back to London a couple of months ago to stay with a broody Italian friend who spoils him rotten.

My friend makes him his own pasta every day and sends him to a posh cat salon every week for grooming. They have gone on holiday and we are looking after him for them.

Alan is not impressed being back here. He gives the bowl of cat food the same expression I imagine Michael Winner to give a bowl of muesli. He also took the first opportunity he was given to defecate in my wellies. I only found out about this latest misdemeanour when putting them on. I can't wait to get away.

I am currently writing my autobiography, Look at Me, Look at Me, and it is bringing up some horrible things that I had tried hard to block out. I have just got to the bit where I got my first break in television, went out celebrating and was raped by a well-known TV personality whom I obviously refuse to name.

I have not seen that Michael Fish on the telly for a while. I wonder what has happened to him. Maybe he missed another hurricane and has been forced to move to Newfoundland.

It happens to all of us in the end. Fame, drugs, Priory, Buddhism, Newfoundland. It is all annoyingly predictable. At least Huxley might enjoy it - except he's from Labrador.