Wake up. Have sex. Feed cat. Make breakfast. Have sex again. Do make-up. Comb hair with hedgehog. Call Noel Gallagher. Swan into Soho. On a swan. Call mum. Chat up model. Have sex. Have vegetarian lunch consisting of scrambled eggs with melted cheese (or at least that’s what my friend Tom once observed you eating in Hampstead). Visit mum in Grays, Essex. Drink tea. Have sex (not with mum). Get train back to London. Have sex on train. Collect award for ‘Shagger of the Year’. Have sex with award. Perform stand-up gig. Receive many laughs. Have sex with entire audience. Go to party. Have sex with door whilst waiting for it to be answered. Once inside avoid drink and drugs but instead indulge in sexual intercourse, your drug of choice. In taxi on way home reflect upon your twelfth conquest of the day and ponder the notion of whether, despite being a man whose rare verbal dexterity and swiftness of thought as amply illustrated in your weekly podcast may one day render you hilarious to the point of world domination, your unquenchable sexual desires are in fact a crie de cour from a manchild cut adrift from convention and desperately seeking shelter from oblivion in the form of a woman’s touch, or merely the mildly unedifying though somewhat enviable behaviour of any number of truly brilliant men from Dylan Thomas to Sven Goran Ericsson whose sex lives do not conform to the norm. Have sex with taxi driver. Let yourself in. Feed cat. Have sex with cat. Turn out the light. N-night Russ.
(please note this column did not appear in Metro)