When I told Lapinski I am happy with who I am and what I've got, she asked me whether I knew I was bald. Who do they think they are? Why do they think they've got a right to happiness as if it was a debt the world owes them? In fact I've got quite a lot of things to look forward to. When they privatise prisons and water, I'll be there for a slice of the cake. Yesterday I went to a pink and chrome pleasure dome with a colleague. We had steak, as a matter of fact. Then we came back here and got rat-arsed on a bottle of Scotch and watched the video. I didn't feel a hundred per cent this morning. The boss crept up to me in his famous soft soles and said something like 'We don't carry any fat, you know.' Well I suppose fear is an executive tool, but fat? My mother went without so I could sleep at night without eating my fists. I visited her last weekend, she was playing chess with her neighbour and when I walked in (dressed specially in a new shirt) she said, 'Son, you're a prat. Look after your queen, Mrs R.' One day I'll shoot her and it'll break my heart. Dunno how she wanted her son to grow up. Dunno what she wants of me. Tonight I'm going to a charity ball to help raise money for a children's hospital - they're raffling off a helicopter. If I win I might just walk right into the blades of its propeller. If I don't I'll get wrecked on champagne and watch the puffed chiffon of shimmering blondes ooze small clues to men in bow ties, and all for babies with bone disease.

The sun is bloody today; my cufflinks are melting and my head aches. If I was to become strawberry jam under a tube train, the computers would carry on dealing without me; there are plenty more like me to feed the cannon, to stuff full of credit, to fill the bars and toy-town houses, to eat the lobster ciabata, to spray tear gas into a million eyes should they be given another sort of uniform.

Last night I dreamt I got sucked into the telly.