I found myself in a graveyard in Northampton last week to publicise Dick Whittington and spread the happy news that I would be performing at the Derngate Theatre twice daily over the festive season. I was to address a town hall full of group buyers. Hundreds of ticket sales were at stake, and my nervous producer was shaking hands and showing off his teeth seductively. I was dressed as the Spirit of Bow Bells (silver hologrammed sequins, shoulder pads and kitten heels, naturally) and my job was to jolly them along, put their minds at rest and liberate their chequebooks.

I enjoy performing in panto, and quite understand the need to tailor my performance to a family's delicate needs and not bang on about cocks up arses as I usually do. None the less my vulgarity was clearly the worry that dare not speak its name. "It will be a lavish, heart-warming show. Fun for all the family," I told them. "I can assure you that during the five weeks I'm in Northampton, my Dick will be on everyone's lips."

Job done, I had local press and photos to deal with, but took an hour off first for lunch, during which my dog Valerie needed a walk. The graveyard is where the local teenage Goths hang out, so I rather blended in with my full panto slap. A few winos, hoodies and chaps who clearly get through the day with a little chemical enhancement were also dotted among the gravestones. A couple of what can only be described as socially disadvantaged youths stroked the dog and engaged me in conversation. Was I Boy George? Was I a famous actress? Call me psychic, but I sensed something strange about them.

"Michael Jackson asked me to go on tour with him but I had to turn him down because I want to concentrate on my Christianity," said one.

"I wouldn't lie to you," said his friend, "but you see that bloke over there? I know for a fact that he's bisexual. I swear to God I could have a word and fix you up with him, if you gave me a couple of quid, like."

No big fan of exchanging cash for sex in graveyards, I thanked him, but said I had to be getting back to the land of showbiz. I have been aware for some time that one in five of the general public is barking mad. At stage doors, book signings, supermarkets and airports, I encounter you on a regular basis. Sometimes we have eye contact and everything.

Don't get me wrong - I embrace your madness as a brother. It is a prerequisite for entering the celebrity arena, after all: if you've got all your marbles you're really not one of us. Ask Anne Diamond. What's so great about being sane and sensible, anyway?

My mother isn't mad in any certifiable sense, but I did have to look after her while she was high on drugs the other day. It was my duty to collect her from the dentist, where she had endured several hours of root-canal treatment with the help of nine milligrams of Temazepam. (I'd been late on a previous occasion and found her dozing in a pile of rubbish sacks on Harley Street. I had to pick her up and brush potato peelings off her Jaeger two-piece as passers-by shook their heads or looked the other way.)

I wasn't late this time. My mother seemed to be behaving quite normally, until we went to a restaurant that evening and she ordered a glass of red wine despite doctors' instructions to avoid alcohol. Suddenly her eyes became glazed and heavy. "I think I'll just lay my head on the table and go to sleep for a few moments," she said. Luckily the soup hadn't arrived. So like dear Liza looking after poor Judy, I sighed to myself.

I suspect there is at least one mad reader of this magazine. There aren't many other explanations for sending me a card with the exciting news that my eyes look vacant, and signing yourself "The Badger". Unless they did, and you are a badger. In your mind, anyway.

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