Monday

I may be part of a burlesque erotic dance troupe called the Satanic Sluts Extreme, touring Europe under the stage name Voluptua, but I’m really a very shy person. So you can imagine how unpleasant it is to find myself splashed across every newspaper in Britain. “Oh no!” I say to my dance partner Orgasmia, who is picking dried crimson candlewax from the bodice of her fishnet catsuit. “I’m afraid I have to fly back to Britain to be met by a clutch of photographers!” “What a nightmare!” exclaims Orgasmia, who is even more demure than I. “Our fellow timid, retiring dancers Sextoria and Ejaculatilla will be devastated!” “Alas yes,” I sigh. “I suppose we can only hope the story quickly fades.” “I’ve got Max Clifford’s number?” suggests Orgasmia. “Super,” I say. “That should help.”

Tuesday

“I’m a very private person,” I explain, “and I’m worried about embarrassing my grandad. So, if I am to do any press about this, it has to be responsible and dignified and restrained.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, love,” says Max Clifford. “But flash a bit more cleavage once we get out there in front of the cameras, yeah?” “Oh, totally,” I say. “Look, I’m wearing my best PVC bra.” “Perfect,” says Max Clifford. “You look like an adorable, wronged, innocent angel.” “An adorable, wronged, innocent Satanic Slut angel?” I ask. “Indeed,” says Max Clifford. “Don’t forget your riding crop.”

Wednesday

In a quiet moment, I pull out my skull-encrusted mobile phone and call my old friend Russell Brand. He’s just had to resign and I wanted to tell him it serves him right. Russell says he couldn’t agree more. “I also wanted to tell you that you are cruel and heartless and ungallant,” I say.

Russell says I’m not wrong. “And,” I add, “I wanted to ask how it feels to have knowingly humiliated a defenceless, harmless, adorable old man.” Russell says it feels pretty bad.

“But mainly,” I continue, “I wanted to ask if I could get an MP3 of the show so I could put it up on my website.” Russell says he’ll have one sent over.

Thursday

I’ve sold my story to a tabloid. It seemed the only sensible way to get this story to end. Max Clifford thought so, anyway. “So let’s see,” says the journalist. “You’ve posed for the pictures in your corset and suspenders. We’ve shot the video with the Satanic Sluts. You’ve told us what you think of Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand, and how disappointing Russell was in bed, and the way you watched Fawlty Towers together in the bedroom, and the way he leapt about and pretended to be Manuel. Are we missing anything?” “As long as it’s clear,” I say, “how upset I am that my grandad might have been embarrassed.” “Oh yes,” says the journalist. “I think that shines through.”

Friday

And still this terrible story rumbles on! Believe you me, the last thing I wanted was to be in every newspaper, website and magazine, pouting and fluffing up my excessively dyed hair. That wasn’t what I went into burlesque Satanic Sluttery for at all! All those dreams of a restrained, below-the-radar career in Beelzebub-inspired soft porn in tatters.

But what can I do? How can I make it all end? Max Clifford reckons it might be a good idea to go on the front of a men’s magazine just wearing underpants and a vinyl wimple, under the headline “JUST STOP LOOKING AT ME”. And after that, maybe to land a record deal. So I suppose I’ll give it a shot. Anything to get life back to normal. For grandad.

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