Sometimes things work out much better than one could have imagined, as if God, looking down, had decided that for whatever reason, a favour should be dispensed in my direction, a blessing. Perhaps occasioned by my diligence and faith, perhaps not. It is impossible to explain these benedictions. Sufficient to say that on Sunday night, at the Baftas in the Royal Festival Hall, the angels looked kindly upon me.

I go to this bun-fest every year, dressed appropriately in a dinner jacket and a cummerbund, patent-leather dress shoes and a bow tie. I ought to point out that I do not receive an invitation to this glittering event: no, I gain entrance through what is commonly known as ‘gatecrashing’. And I do so in order to scream vile abuse at whichever leftie luvvie has enraged me during the preceding 12 months. This is the consequence of a neurological condition with which I am afflicted – no, sorry, of which I am a survivor – called Chronic Late Development Conscious Coprolalia (CLDCC) and which I will explain in greater detail later.

I like to scream vile abuse at whichever leftie luvvie has enraged me during the preceding 12 months

I like to scream vile abuse at whichever leftie luvvie has enraged me during the preceding 12 months

Anyway, having inveigled my way in – never much of a problem, just remember to look smug all the time – I was seated centre-left, perhaps 40 yards from the stage, when the compère for the evening, the truly awful Alan Cumming, started to speak. Still seated, I bellowed out: ‘Cumming – you........

© The Spectator