The perils of inhabiting the vulgar wing of entertainment

Spare a thought for those of us who inhabit the more vulgar areas of the entertainment industry. We are still performing pantomime in the provinces twice a day. You may be settling in to the grim realities of the new year, but we are wearing fixed smiles and milking the Christmas spirit for all it’s worth, even if there is a whiff of pear drops in the auditorium. There's money in them there old dears.

I cohabit with King Rat. We're staying at a farmhouse in the jauntily named village of Long Buckby in Northamptonshire. It's quite the place to be. There was an armed robbery at Costcutters the week we arrived. Balaclavas and everything. I suspect this was all done to make us feel at home.

The farmhouse owner has gone to Australia for six weeks and we have the run of the place. Our sole duty is to look after Blackie the cat. "Never let her out of the kitchen," I was told. "Just give her the dry food and put her out at night." Well, three weeks into our stay, and Blackie is a changed woman. She's filled out nicely on a diet of roast gammon and North Atlantic prawns. She sleeps, in some splendour, in my private boudoir and may go out for a five-minute mid-morning stroll, if it's not too chilly. Her need for affection is inexhaustible. She wraps herself around my neck in an orgy of purring and furry rubbing. It's like living with Linda Lovelace.

I feel bad, though. In a week's time I must return to the real world. Blackie must revert to her old, shall we say, rather Polish lifestyle, shivering in the cold and desperate for a taste of coq au vin. Still, that's her problem.

While living in this unnatural world, King Rat has taken on the grim responsibility of rousing me each morning with a firm but friendly knock on my bedroom door. He then comes in, whether I respond or not, and draws the curtains with a cheery, "Good morning!" I open my eyes and cry, "Tea!" This is where things could go either way. If he's wearing his maroon djellaba I know he'll say, "Yes, certainly," but if he's just holding a skimpy towel around his ample midriff it's not good news.

"Not this morning," he says, in a no-nonsense manner. "I'm going for a shower." And, boy, does he need one. Because his every stage entrance is accompanied by a pyrotechnic puff of green smoke, he smells like smouldering rubber. I thought Noel Edmonds was bad but King Rat takes the biscuit. "Deal" or "No deal"? Have a bath and I'll tell you. Open the box and let's hope there's a can of Right Guard inside, is all I'm saying.

We're just down the road from the Spencer family estate, Althorp, where Princess Diana is buried in the middle of a handy lake. A local taxi driver claims she isn't there at all. He told me where she's really buried, but I choose not to reveal that location. I like the idea of coachloads of tourists shedding tears and taking photos of an empty grave site. Diana would like that. It means she's had the last laugh. I think she saw enough cameras while she was alive. Give the woman a rest.

Dramatic events with my dog, Valerie. Mysterious sores on her front and rear left legs. Antibiotics and steroid cream have to be administered, but the main feature of the treatment is the lampshade arrangement she must wear around her neck to prevent wound-licking. (We've all been there.) The shame of it. You don't want to draw attention to yourself in Northampton, believe me – a town with so many speed cameras, they're obviously there to slow everyone down, just in case you miss the full beauty of the place. Sniffing a lamp-post while wearing a Perspex cone isn't as easy as it sounds. And it's not as though we qualify for disabled parking.

Valerie's itching is clearing up, I'm pleased to say, and tomorrow I can remove her appendage. She'll then, I hope, drop the mournful John Prescott expression. It's not doing her any favours.

Julian Clary

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