At some point in the later part of the 20th century, I had a colossal crush on the writer Will Self. I wasn’t the only one; on one memorable day, three friends phoned me to tell me that he was The One. I soon put them right, because I’m an empath; “Well, dear, he may be The One, but you’re One of The Three – and that’s just today. Toodles!”

He didn’t fancy me back but this only made me more keen; it got to the point where I’d call his answerphone from my bedroom when he was sitting in my front room holding court, just to have his voice to myself. I’m revealing this rather cringey episode as I find it’s always best to employ complete candour in confessional writing; we’ve all had a gutful of those clowns who pretend to be telling all, but conveniently twist or omit facts so that they emerge from every situation looking like the poor helpless victim of monstrous regiments of unworthy friends, lovers and employers.

When I left London for Brighton in 1995 our friendship ceased, but I was nevertheless surprised to find him making an ineffable knob of himself in a ranting 2014 review of my book Unchosen. He wrote: “About 12 years ago I profiled Burchill […] I wrote then that she presented the bizarre spectacle of an intelligent woman who had spent her entire adult life making herself more stupid; this process has now reached its inevitable conclusion, and she has become to all intents and purposes moronic.”

I must say I had a good chuckle over that one, having seen Self capering moronically on TV panel shows quite a few times, a temptation which I have always mysteriously resisted. You could safely say that we regard each other with the........

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