Celebrities lead very dangerous lives. I could react to my foundation and end up in a coma

There's a pleasing whiff of I, Claudius about the battle for the succession. How thrilling that Empress Cherie should mutter, "Lies!" about her husband's adversary as she stormed down the palace corridor. If she hasn't got an asp secreted in her freezer box I'm a Brownite. (Unfortunate term, I've always thought.) Yet I predict we'll all feel horribly insecure without Blair at the helm. It's a bit like your hairdresser emigrating and leaving your barnet's well-being to the care of a recommended stranger. Whoever succeeds, we shall leer at them suspiciously, then take our custom elsewhere.

The only contender my eye lingers on is David Miliband. Quite attractive, especially when he undoes his top button at fringe meetings. Puts me in mind of a bit of rough from Liverpool.

You’ll have noticed the new photo of me at the top of this page. I wanted to bring some glamour to the NS. But allow us our flights of vanity. Celebrities lead dangerous lives. We wrestle with stingrays, drive faster than the speed of Kate Moss, and carry heavy bank balances around, all for your amusement. I could have an allergic reaction to my foundation and end up in a coma. This happened to Ming Campbell, but no one noticed.

I am soon, if my contract is to be believed, to make another foray into the cut-throat arena of publishing. But my debut novel about sex and murder in the world of Showbiz is not going terribly well. My publishers rejected Dead Man Wanking as a title, and To Kill a Coffin Dodger. I’m now trying for Catch a Fellating Star or Mind Your Oesophagus, but it seems that supermarkets – where a substantial part of the market now lies – won’t display such filth. A shame, but the secret of longevity is to roll with the times. How about if I call it Duck à 'Orange and change my name to Sautée Potatoes? If they could stack books in the ready-meals section, I’d sell thousands.

Always eager to work in the field of quality entertainment, I’m a judge each Friday on Channel 5’s live All Star Talent Show. "Celebrities", who fall into several categories, display their talents, be it Carol Thatcher tap dancing or the cricketer Henry Olonga singing "Nessun Dorma". We know it’s good because the Sun described it as the television equivalent of a KFC Zinger meal. I swelled with pride when it was considered "a TV disaster of such epic proportions, Oliver Stone’s interested in securing the film rights".

Last week my fellow judge was the unpredictable genius Freddie Starr. He's the naughtiest man in showbiz. During a commercial break he whispered in my ear: "I'm going to take my trousers off in a minute and . . ." The rest I cannot recount. This week my guest is Peter Andre, and he's Australian. I'm sure he'll be game to make Freddie's vision a reality, gain valuable coverage and boost his record sales and our ratings. I'm practising my lines - "There's a good dog," and, if experience is anything to go by, "Down, boy!"

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