Curses on Derek and all his psychic pals. That's the last time I do one of his rubbishy shows, it's all been downhill since that Cilla incident earlier in the week. Not only did QVC cancel yesterday, but this afternoon some whippersnapper of a producer from Ideal World phoned to say they wouldn't be requiring me for the V Slicer Hour tomorrow either.
As consolation I thought I'd drown my sorrows with a pint of foaming wallop in one of the local hostelries. Many of them look rather dreary, and most have incomprehensible names like Nadgers or Ye Olde Gaye Bosun. But The Amputated Arms up near the hospital (which is currently being converted into luxury flats - hurrah!) had been recommended, so I trudged over there.
After three or four pints of the local brew, I was walking back just after sunset through the trendier, Eastcliff part of town, when I heard the unmistakable sound of the Russian tongue. Just over the road was a group of Russkies crowded round a car, and I could honestly swear that sitting in the driver's seat was none other than Roman Abramovich. I'd heard tell that the local football team was doing rather well, but could it be... dare we hope...? Even now it looked like he was arguing the toss with his management team.
Disappointingly, though, just as I was about to cross the road to offer him encouragement by congratulating him on his wise choice of location, he revved up his 'N' registration BMW and sped off in a cloud of blue smoke. I'll keep you posted.