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He must be wondering why he suddenly finds himself in such frosty conditions when only a few days ago he was warm and snug in a much cozier environment.

When we passed him this morning, Audrey looked at me as if to ask, ‘When are the horses going to be stabled for the winter?’

‘When the evil farmer decides they’ve suffered enough.’ I told her.

I know horses are fairly hardy creatures – and I am certainly no farmer – but it seems to me that a newly-born foal should already be stabled. But what do I know?

‘The horses are cold,’ a small Asian boy observed as he passed us on his way to school. ‘It’s time they were hibernating.’

‘Horses don’t hibernate, little fellow,’ I informed him, trying to be helpful.

‘Oh yes they do,’ he replied. ‘And monkeys.’

‘The only animals that hibernate in this country are dormice, hedgehogs and bats,’ I continued.

Silence. Then: ‘You’re weird.’

I just can’t win.

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‘Are you two drunk?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘You better believe it, Davy-Boy!’ Reg bellowed. ‘Been on the whiskey all night and all bloody morning, too.’

‘Wanna make something of it?’ slurred Nigel, looking very unsteady on his wobbly whiskey-legs.

I pointedly ignored him. ‘Being drunk this early in the morning will lead you to only one place, Reg,’ I told him. ‘Hell.’

‘Or the pub,’ replied Nigel.

‘Same thing around here,’ I informed them both.

It looked like Nigel had vomited sometime in the last few hours down the front of his nylon raincoat, and Reg had on carpet slippers, no socks, and what looked suspiciously like pyjama bottoms. I was embarrassed for them. I know that people around here do not always represent the pinnacle of urbane sophistication, but the pair of them looked like escaped mental patients. (Again, not something out of the ordinary for many inhabitants of the village.)

‘We’re celebrating I.T. Boy’s divorce,’ said Reg. ‘Came through yeshterday.’

‘I.T. Boy?’

‘Nigel.’

‘Yesterday? That was quick.’

Nigel leaned dangerously close to my face. ‘Not quick enough. I hate that lesbo bitch,’ he hissed. ‘When I get the chance, I’m going to shoot her in the back and make it look like suicide.’

‘You haven’t thought that through properly, have you.’

He toppled backwards into a shopping trolley, but before crashing completely to the floor, regained his balance at the last minute – as drunken people are surprisingly able to do sometimes. I held out my hand to assist him but he didn’t take it. He made a big show of straightening himself, of drunkenly dusting down his stained coat, before half-fixing me with his eyes and loudly declaring: ‘I don’t need anybody to help me. You or anybody. You especially.’

Why am I not surprised he works in I.T.?

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‘I’ll have a treat, please.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’ll have a treat, please,’ I repeated, holding out my hand.

‘But . . . erm . . . we ain’t got any.’ He looked around rather dejectedly at his small cohorts dressed as witches, ghouls and zombies and shook his head. They all shrugged in unison.

‘You didn’t come prepared? You haven’t properly thought this through, have you?’

‘What?’

‘I’m just pulling your leg. When you said “Trick or treat” I thought you were . . . never mind. Let’s just say I never like to miss a comedy open goal when it’s presented to me. Ha ha.’

‘You’re weird. I’m telling my mum.’

I did have a treat in the end: an early night and twenty pages of John O’Farrell’s An Utterly Impartial History of Britain.

Rock ‘n’ roll, eh?

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An old girlfriend from your schooldays will e-mail you out of the blue saying: ‘I’m divorced now. We should go out for a drink sometime.’

Your anxiety attacks will start again.

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You will be invited to a school reunion and decide not to go.

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I’m going to have a fight on my hands again, I can feel it. Still, being English, one doesn’t like to complain. Mustn’t grumble, and all that.

The subject of demons reminds me of a bumpy journey in the back of a Ford Transit to a gig at the Marquee in London many years ago. Tom, Slaughterhouse 5’s chief roadie, was reading the Dean Koontz novel Demon Seed. Occasionally prone to the odd vocal ejaculation, he looked up at me and asked, ‘Do you think sperms ever have a wank?’

We all laughed so much we almost crashed into a coach full of mooning schoolchildren. Boff the drummer nearly soiled his britches.

It was Dave Graham, ace bass player and comedy genius who eventually replied to Tom’s earnest enquiry. With astonishing wit and perfect timing, he pointed at the band’s rhythm guitarist who was driving the van, and said, ‘I bet Steve’s do.’

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As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I was so sober, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. They make mornings hell. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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He has said before that he would love to join the band, but, apart from his duties with the Babysitters, he was telling me that his wife is due to give birth soon and that he would not really have the time or the energy to properly commit to Enormous. Stupid women. Stupid babies. What happened to rock ‘n’ roll?

Aside from his skills on the bass guitar, Walt is a clever and very witty man. I mentioned this to him during our conversation.

‘Yeah, bass players are traditionally regarded as being even dumber than drummers, aren’t they.’

‘That’s true, Walt,’ I told him. ‘And drummers, by definition, apart from being incredibly stupid, are also very, very annoying. All of them.’ I then remembered an old muso joke: ‘Hey, Walt, what did the bass player get on his IQ test?’

‘Tell me, Davy.’

‘Dribble.’

‘Ha, ha.’ Then he outdid me. ‘Here’s one for you that demonstrates the point even better.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Did you hear about the drummer who arrived at the gig only to discover he had locked his keys in his car? It took him an hour to get the bass player out.’

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You will renounce alcohol.
After a few months you will nounce alcohol again.
You will go on to renounce alcohol once more.
(You will probably nouce it again next week.)

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