Forget house arrest, Musharraf should be confined to the nearest Trevor Sorbie salon

It’s unfortunate when you lose your dignity in public, as I did this week. I had just drawn out some cash in the middle of a busy Oxford Street when a gust of wind caught me unawares and my clutch of £20 notes flew from my grasp, up and away. Some sort of fight-or-flight instinct took hold, and I leapt in the air like a gazelle, reaching for my hard-earned money. I caught one note, but others fluttered slowly towards the ground over a wide area.

"They're mine! Clear off!" I shouted, coming over all Ray Winstone. I roughly pushed my fellow pedestrians out of the way, charging forward and backwards, growling aggressively. Several people screeched in indignation but I took no heed. I saw another note in the gutter a couple of yards away and launched myself into a belly flop between their legs, cursing and drooling.

In fact, no one was trying to make off with so much as a fiver. Complete strangers understood and co-operated, and dutifully collected my escaped money, which I snatched from their kind hands. Eyes flashing, I greedily counted my pounds and plunged them into the safety of my pocket.

Only then did I stand up and dust myself down, breathing heavily. My moment of frenzied madness evaporated and I felt the shadow of embarrassment creep over me.

"So sorry, thank you, thank you very much," I said, as the crowd dispersed. "You're too kind. It was a state of emergency, you see . . . "

Speaking of which, it’s a shame about Pervez Musharraf. Whatever is he thinking? Never mind naughty judges and fractious lawyers, there’s one emergency he could do something about: his hair. I can’t take my eyes off it. A thick black rug with a centre parting and a frisky grey trim at the back and sides is not a good look. Especially while Benazir Bhutto is swanning about in chic headscarves. He looks like something from a Benny Hill sketch. Forget house arrest, Musharraf should be confined to the nearest Trevor Sorbie salon for a thorough makeover.

My poor dog, Valerie. Plucked from a life of grime on a north Clapham council estate eight years ago, she has grown accustomed toa life of luxury, travelling everywhere by limousine. But times are hard. Working in the theatre, as I currently am, I don’t really get a wage; it’s more of a tip. Consequently, I can’t afford anything more glamorous than the bus. Val endures the show from the comfort of my dressing room and then we set off home. Friday nights are the worst. By the time we’re mounting the number 29, most travellers are, shall we say, merry. The danger in this environment is that I might encounter heterosexual men. Obviously we employ a couple of these in the theatre (there are some heavy things that need lifting), but they are a worry. I have learned to avoid the horror of being recognised, by wearing a woolly hat pulled down across my eyes and a scarf up to my nose. Valerie, though, is naked but for her diamante collar – a remnant of more prosperous times.

The other night a skinhead sat beside me, burping impressively. He was seriously rough. From the corner of my eye I noticed he had what appeared to be fresh blood spattered on his boots. No doubt he'd been in some sort of scrap. I stiffened inwardly (this takes years of practice). It took him a moment to notice Valerie between us.

"Mind if I stroke your dog, mate?" he asked in a gruff voice. I nodded. Best not to speak, experience has taught me. His big, rough hand patted her head with surprising tenderness. Valerie looked lovingly up at him, boldly enjoying extended eye contact. The next time I glanced down, she was licking the blood from his boots. That's my girl.

It's not easy to give a dog a mouthwash but I managed it.

Julian Clary

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