Julian's week

I'm going to be locked in a room with Kilroy-Silk and Wendy Richards. That would unsettle the Dalai

I'm on the home run with my novel writing. It's a funny old business. I create a gallery of fictional characters, but after a while they take on a life of their own, whispering their dialogue in my ear. I'm just channelling, really. It's the Doris Stokes method of writing. All I have to do is write down what they say, baulking along the way at their unspeakable depravity. There's no point in reasoning with them. One superfluous gay couple, who are (as I suspect they may have guessed) only there to be murdered further down the line, have spontaneously started indulging in "water sports". I ask you.

I'd rather not know about such goings on, but what can I do? I've no idea what's coming next, but "Bernard" keeps glancing lustfully at the Victorian doorknob in the garden room, and I fear the worst. At this rate, when it's published, the book will have to be shrink-wrapped and put on the top shelf. We don't want sensitive types fainting in Waterstone's. (Or do we?) I've put a few heterosexuals in my book, just to add colour. They don't say or do anything very interesting. It's extremely true to life in that respect.

There's a new species of reality TV coming your way, you'll be thrilled to hear, where celebrity jurors decide the outcome of a fictional trial. I thought it would get me out of the house, and I signed up with alacrity. Our instructions from the production company are to "be emotionally prepared as testimony and evidence can prove unpleasant or unsettling". I'll say. I'm going to be locked in a room for five days with the likes of Robert Kilroy-Silk and Wendy Richards. That would unsettle the Dalai Lama. It's very strict. "Members of the jury are not allowed to have contact with the outside world. In extreme circumstances, a note may be passed to the jury usher who may contact someone on your behalf."

I take this to means he'll nip to the corner shop to get me 20 Benson & Hedges, if needs be. I'm going to be seeing a lot of this usher, by all accounts. "If you require a toilet break, you must contact the jury usher who will then escort you." I am a renowned homosexual. Isn't it unseemly for me to be seen disappearing into toilets with ushers? There will be talk, I fear. And do I have to use the same loo as Robert Kilroy-Silk? I'm taking wet wipes just in case.

I worry I might get overexcited and do a Jade. What if I disgrace myself over an Oxo cube or something? I do hope Miss Goody rises from the ashes and gets a new lease of life. Humility and contrition are always attractive, I think. If she can pull it off before the BNP sign her up as the face of their new scent (a rancid fragrance with a hint of pit bull), then she could be hosting Songs of Praise in six months' time. Here's hoping.

Paul O'Grady has become a grandfather and I've become a great-uncle. Our progeny are almost the same age, and are no doubt destined to grow up as mini versions of ourselves. What fun they'll have together in the summer holidays, scampering about our adjoining gardens in Kent. "My grandpa has got a load of dresses in his wardrobe."

"That's nothing. My uncle's got more make-up than Debenhams."

"My grandpa's got a Bafta."

"So what? My uncle once worked with Robert Kilroy-Silk."

I'm not the only gay in the village here in Kent. Not by a long chalk. There's a friendly couple down the road who are big in mashed potato. I had to decline their kind invitation to join them this weekend at a local fancy ball, as I had guests coming. "Oh, well," said the bolder of the two, "we'll pop in for a nightcap on the way home. There will be eight of us. I've hired a minibus. Will that be all right, girl?" "Sadly, I don't think I could accommodate eight of you at two in the morning," I said, quaking. "I'll see how pissed we are," he said.

Julian Clary

This article first appeared in the 29 January 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Climate change