Yes, my advisors have got me into a right royal pickle with The Boyz. They went about their business in a really ham fisted way, taubah taubah. Imagine getting caught out at The Big Game! I’ve been advised to brazen it out and just say, “all’s well that ends in a well”.

So now, the Big Boy and I are face to face. It reminds me of that Turkish soap opera of which Her Holiness is so fond, “Mera Sultan”. I’m feeling a bit like the Grand Vizier who’s been caught out one too many times flouting the Sultan’s authority. We all know what happens to Grand Viziers who embark on such a dangerous course. Gulp.

But I’m not delusional for nothing. I will have them all for lunch, you’ll see. And just LOOK at the provocation. I mean, in one fell swoop, my poor Punjabi head honcho has been rendered powerless. He’s been relegated to just sitting there warming his chair – his entire officers corps is reporting to You Know Who.

I was so perplexed at this counter coup by the Big Boy and I asked around for explanations but there were none forthcoming. I looked long and hard at my old cricket bat for clues but drew a blank. Finally, I consulted Her Holiness, her crystal ball, the djinns and other technocrats. I was told to circumambulate The Blessed Tree in the back garden, on all fours, chanting certain mantras and the answer would come to me in a dream. Sure enough, as I slept that night my good friend Sir Mark Senspencer arrived at Heathrow to receive me. Without saying a word, he took me to Lady Annabel Goldsmith’s where all my old has-been friends were waiting for me – Mick Jagger stacking his syringes (such a tidy person), Madonna practicing her new number “Spank My Butt” which was incredibly powerful and traumatic. And Susannah Constantine in her late 60s currently dating the late Marquis of Salmonella. I wonder what it all meant?

Im the Dim