Start at the bottom: Neil Start resorts to desperate measures to woo back Anka

Tuesday: Leave empty flat early. Even Vorderman, Neanderthal flatmate and Countdown addict, is gone.

A note is propped up in a congealed bowl of Frosties informing me he's moving in with Carol and asking for his post to be forwarded via OK after photo spread on their new life together.

Slip unnoticed into Westminster Abbey chapel dedicated to private prayer. When building is cleared in advance of awards ceremony, I hide in the loo. Guests are already arriving when I re-emerge and mingle.

Spot chairman David, beaming with false modesty in anticipation of receiving his global environment award from Archbishop of Canterbury in recognition of his work at Goldfish Action Group. At his side is Mrs David, aka my ex-lover Anka, and our baby.

Sit through long, tedious speeches of self-congratulation from other award winners - Janet Street-Porter for services to rambling (in the pulpit, as far as I can judge) and David Cameron (for occasionally using a bicycle).

My David is the last one up. He's just setting up his PowerPoint display on the abbey's rood screen when I make my move. I slip off voluminous overcoat and reveal GAG's orange papier mache goldfish costume. Gun pinched from recent clay-pigeon shoot keeps sidesmen at bay as I take David hostage in a surprisingly roomy pulpit. I detail his deceptions, professional and private, and plead with Anka to give us one more chance. I suggest the archbishop could marry us.

Clutching baby Golda/Agnetta, Anka rises. My heart skips a beat. The Wedding March plays in my head. "I can't," she wails. "You're not the father. He is." She points to smarmy Tory MP and GAG trustee two rows back, then heads for the exit. Drop gun in horror and give chase. Have almost caught up with her when I'm rugby tackled by David Cameron.

Friday: My lawyer's claiming it's now impossible to have a fair trial after acres of newspaper publicity about David Cameron playing Superman.

A career in prison reform beckons.

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