QV: "Peter, you’re looking very sombre today. Is something the matter?"

PP: "It’s a terrible bloody shame about old Crazy Horse, isn’t it?"

QV: "Yes, the death of football legend Emlyn Hughes at the tragically young age of 57 has touched fans of the game the world over."

PP: "Not his death, for Christ’s sake! Of course, it’s a bloody tragedy that the great man is no longer with us, but the thing is, in all these telly tributes to him, they haven’t mentioned his crowning achievement. I’m shocked and, quite frankly, a bit bloody pissed off about it."

QV: "His crowning achievement? The two European Cups he won with Liverpool?"

PP: "Frankly, anyone can win all those trophies and kick the ball between the stumps. That’s nothing for a man to be proud of. No, I’m talking about that classic moment on ‘A Question Of Sport’, where Emlyn mistook Princess Anne for some old poofter. Coh, dearie me, I was creased up on the floor, in danger of pissing myself, when the great man realised it was Her Royal Highness. Then, it got better, because Sir David Coleman then said that on Emlyn’s team the following week would only be Princess bloody Anne herself! I tell you what, I was almost crying with laughter, and Hughsie himself almost died with embarrassment."

QV: "Of course, now he is dead, some would say that remark is in rather poor taste."

PP: "I couldn’t agree more, ghoulish bloody people. That’s what’s wrong with this country, you know. Too many bloody layabouts and not enough people getting off their arses and going to do an honest day’s work. Poor old Emlyn slaved his guts out and what did he have to show for it at the end of the day? A bloody wooden box. God, it makes you wonder if there’s any point in religion, all these deaths. John Peel, old Emlyn, Yasmin Arafat... will they all be with Jesus now, I wonder?"

QV: "Well, it’s unlikely that Arafat will be, being as he was a Moslem."

PP: "Poor old sod - he died in France. Nobody deserves that."

QV: "Anyway, today’s first question comes from Andrew, who lives on the South Coast, and he wants to know what you think of the news that Boris Johnson has been sacked from his job in the Shadow Cabinet after some lurid tabloid revelations about his private life."

PP: "This is a rum one and no mistake, but on balance I have to say that Michael Howard did the right thing. Boris is a lovely bloke, but for God’s sake, if you’re going to go into politics, you have to be able to keep your bloody todger under lock and key, not drop your kegs every time some bit of skirt gives you the eye. Look at how many bloody great Conservative politicians and officials have fallen on their sword simply because some tart has fallen on their pork sword. "

QV: "Such as Tim Yeo, Jeffrey Archer, the Earl of Caithness, or Hartley Booth?"

PP: "What’s even weirder is the amount of bloody Tories who were kinky buggers... Norman Lamont and his Miss Whiplash lodger, David Morris, who shared a bed with a man, that bloke who died of oxygen swallowed an orange whilst wearing tights..."

QV: "Stephen Milligan?"

PP: "Michael Hutchence. Bloody weirdos, the lot of them. But that’s politics for you - the pressure of having to be squeaky clean can be a living hell sometimes. As a former children’s television presenter, I know exactly how these politicians feel. When I was doing ‘Blue Peter’, if I went out in public, I couldn’t smoke, I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t even bloody swear! I had to be seen to be setting an example to the kids. It was a bloody ball-ache, but it had to be done. I just got on with it and didn’t moan, and of course Singleton was all prim-and-proper and as strait-laced as a Victorian corset anyway, but Noaksie couldn’t come to terms with it. I remember getting phoned up by Biddy Baxter in the small hours, sometime in 1969, on a cold and miserable night. She was screaming that the crazy bugger was in a club, pissed out of his face, and that I had to go and drag him out. I was half-asleep and momentarily weakened, so I found it impossible to refuse her cajoling. I took a bloody long cab ride to Soho to this strip joint, where Biddy had said Noaksie was. As my cab pulled up, I noticed a some of those bastard vultures from the tabloid press were already entering the club. I dashed after them, but I was too late. I walked in to find John Noakes, the face of children’s television, shirt off, chest drenched in champagne, with one hand groping the breasts of a scantily-clad teenage stripper, and the other raised in an offensive salute. The flashbulbs were exploding all around him, and I just knew that the Sunday rags were going to have a field day with him. Fortunately, at that moment, news came through that man had just landed on the moon, and the papers the next day were all full of that instead. Noaksie actually wrote to Neil Armstrong thanking him, but we never heard back from him. Buzz Aldrin sent an autographed picture, so at least we knew that he’d got the letter."

QV: "Richard Bacon wasn’t quite so lucky, was he?"

PP: "True enough - the poor bastard never stood a chance when they got their talons into him. But then again, he should have been more careful. In fact, the little idiot shouldn’t have been snorting that stuff in the first place. It messes your head up - I saw it happen during the Seventies, it was all around us. Singleton used to preach to us about it, but we weren’t kids and wanted to make our own minds up. Noaksie and I bought what we thought was coke from a bloke in the BBC canteen, but it had no effect on us. It later turned out that it was actually self-raising flour. We never really tried it again after that, but Lesley Judd did, and she got terribly zonked out on it. She had to have her septum replaced like that Daniella Seabrook because she snorted so much. It’s a warning from God when that happens, so I’d just like to take this opportunity to say - just say no, okay?"

QV: "No?"

PP: "No."

QV: "A lesson for us all there. Now our next question comes from Heather of Leeds, who’d like to know what you think of the frankly frightening news that there are 158 unpublished Barbara Cartland novels to be released onto the internet."

PP: "What? Lord preserve us, a hundred and fifty-bloody-eight more piles of crap from that wrinkled old bag?"

QV: "Well, technically she isn’t a wrinkled old bag, she’s more of a...corpse. But in essence, you’re right. The novels will be published online each month for the next thirteen years."

PP: "I wonder, what is the bloody appeal of that sort of slushy rubbish is in the year 2004? I mean, they’re all exactly the same story, and they’re not even remotely sexy... they were quite restrained even back in the bloody nineteen fifties, let alone now. Not an inch of thigh or a flash of knockers to be seen anywhere. Give me a good spy novel, with a manly hero with a square jaw any day. He saves England, and then he gives the bird a good seeing to. That’s my kind of novel."

QV: "Our final question this week comes from James, who lives up in Scotland, and he asks, ‘are you looking forward to the new ‘Star Wars’ film, ‘Revenge Of The Sith’?"

PP: "I’ve got to say, I’m bloody rubbing my hands together in anticipation at this hitting our screens. The return of that action hero Captain Kirk, and his gang of adventurers, boldly going where no man has gone before, kicking some alien arse and then giving the bird a good seeing to. That’s my kind of film."

QV: "Peter, that’s ‘Star Trek’... or some close approximation of it. I’m talking about ‘Star Wars’ - George Lucas’ epic fantasy saga that began in 1977 and has spawned two sequels and three prequels. The build-up to the release of the final prequel next year has begun this week with the first trailer being shown on the internet."

PP: "I never really saw the appeal of all that ‘may the force be with you’ stuff, myself. It’s all very well being a Jedi Knight, and kicking the arse of Jabba the Hutt, but what sort of message is that sending out to the youngsters? That beating up fat kids is alright? It’s this kind of mixed messages that are turning the nation’s youth into a generation of junkie delinquent yobbos, bing-binging their jewels and smacking their bitches down, with no respect for their elders and betters. If it were up to me, I’d ban all that ‘Star Wars’ nonsense and this ‘Revenge Of The Shit’ would never be shown. Leave all that filth to those bloody Yanks, for the love of Christ! We don’t want them ramming it down our throat again."

QV: "Peter, it’s been a pleasure."

PP: "Thank you."