Holidays with Hosni and co

Well, I'm back and to say my winter holiday did not go according to plan would be an understatement along the lines of "the Lib-Dems didn't do terribly well in the Barnsley by-election".

When I abandoned you poor shivering ordinaries last Christmas, I was looking forward to nothing more stressful than a pleasant cruise along the North African coast, popping in on one or two of my favourite dictators. My first port of call was Tunisia, a lovely, peaceful resort of a nation. Then a small opposition movement poked its fez over the parapet.

I advised my friend and client, President Ben Ali, to crush them mercilessly. With Tunisia in the hands of the revolutionaries, I hastened to the safety of Egypt. Hosni Mubarak and I go back a long way. The arms deals we've done! So when the unwashed of Cairo took to the streets, I had complete confidence in Hosni's determination to destroy and scatter his enemies.

Fleeing Egypt, I sailed for the one safe port left to me - Benghazi. "If anyone knows how to keep the shackles on his people," I thought, "it's my old mucker Muammar 'I'm not as mad as I look' Gaddafi. He'll look after me; he still owes me big time for persuading Gordon to help spring his bomber from that Scottish prison."

Alas, days later, the ghastly contagion of democracy hit Libya. What is wrong with the world?!

I headed straight for the port, only to find the crew of my yacht had joined the uprising, their flimsy excuse being I hadn't paid them for three months and might have used the cat-o-nine-tails to enforce discipline on board.

I immediately used my satellite phone to order Cameron to send an SAS hit squad to extract me. He promised to send eight of his deadliest killers, but a week later they still hadn't materialised. Probably still wandering around in the desert.

I had no choice but to make my way to Tripoli airport and try to scramble aboard any outbound plane with a first-class section. But all flights were suspended.

Then my luck changed. Who should I run into in the executive lounge but my pal Andrew, the grand old Duke of York (he had 10,000 air miles)? Andrew is my greatest fan - indeed he's been emulating me for 20 years. If I sell my house to an oil-rich despot for £3m more than it's worth, he sells his house to an oil-rich despot for £3m more than it's worth. If I hang out with convicted sex offenders . . . well, you get my drift.

As Britain's official rough-trade emissary, Andy had his own plane warmed up and ready on the runway. On board were several attractive young hostesses, also warmed up and ready. It's the first time I've really enjoyed the safety demonstration. The luxurious ride back to Blighty almost rendered my winter holiday worthwhile - and he sold me an invitation to William's wedding.

Yet some people want to sack the noble fourth-in-line from his public duties. I'm speechless.

As told to Marks and Gran