PP: "Yes – and then I was supposed to say something like, ‘I don’t know – but thank God for Blue Peter and the Conservative party’ and then we’d play the national anthem, and fade out. But Biddy refused point blank, saying it had no place in a children’s programme and instead we had to do some old rubbish about lifeboats. Typical bloody woman’s attitude – no balls, you see."

PP: "Scraping the bloody barrel a bit this week, aren’t we? Where’s the bloody questions about cricket, or the lack of police in our city centres at night, or the wonderful work being done down at the Great Central Railway in Loughborough, where volunteers work day and night to restore steam locomotives to full working order. There’s nothing better than watching a Puffing Billy charging past you – and I’m not talking about when William Hartnell’s pipe caught fire and he had to run out of the studio. Ahahahahahaha…. I’ve still got it."

PP: "Alright, I suppose the bloody money’s the same no matter what the question, eh? In actual fact, Mark Curry was a bit of a weirdo. Underneath the carrot-topped buffoon figure that you saw on the telly, who smashed Lego men and crashed antique tractors, he was one of those people that believe the truth is a lie, and that all lies lead to the truth."

PP: "No, a bloody conspiracy theorist! I was trying to be a dramatic, a bit spooky - you know, like Fucks Mouldy."

PP: "Fucks Mouldy, that bloke from The X Files. Now, I’m no great fan of these latter-day science fiction series Percy – too bloody stuffy and straight-laced with none of the humour that we used to have back on Who, but there have been some absolutely bloody marvellous episodes in that series. Plus, the smouldering sexual magnetism of Gerry Anderson – what man can deny having dirty thoughts about that stunner?"

PP: "Anyway, Mark was one of these conspiracy theorist types – always believing in UFOs, and government cover-ups. He believed that the state used television to brainwash the kids via subliminal messages in the Blue Peter scripts, that Biddy Baxter was in the KGB, and that Peter Duncan had been replaced by an alien replicant."

PP: "No, he wasn’t a bloody loony… well, I suppose you could say that he was in a way. He was mad in that passionate way when somebody believes in something so strongly they don’t let themselves be shackled by convention. Coh, dearie me, I can see him now at the bloody fortieth anniversary bash at Sarah Green’s house. Everyone else was in Sarah’s big garden, drinking bucks fizz and watching a big firework display, while Mark was in the house, terrifying young Konnie Huq by telling her that her mobile phone was actually controlling her mind and that she should keep it switched off at all times. The poor girl was bawling her eyes out, in a terrible state, but fortunately my old mate Noaksie stepped in and comforted her in the only way he knew how, the randy old devil."

PP: "He sits in his big old house, drinking Courvoisier and dribbling, mainly."

PP: "Ah yes, well, that’s the spookiest thing of all. You see, not long after that bash at Sarah’s pad in West London, Mark decided to emigrate to Mozambique. Now, if I were a barking madman or a conspiracy theorist, I’d find certain things about his departure a bit suspicious."

PP: "Well, he hated foreign food, foreign culture, and had no grasp of foreign languages whatsoever. Plus, his rent and utility bills have been paid in full for the next two hundred years, and the day before he left he was shot dead in the street by an SAS marksman. Fortunately, I’m a little bit too level-headed to read anything into these things."

PP: "Bloody rum bunch of questions this week and no mistake. Poetry? Hmmm, that’s a tricky one, because to a lot of my mates, poetry is simply another word for ‘poofter’."

PP: "Maybe, but that’s the way it is with us straight-talking blokes. However, being a bit more academically advanced than some of them, I have got the sophistication to appreciate the subtle nuances of the written word in all its… farms?"

PP: "In all its forms. Sorry, couldn’t quite read your writing there… I mean…ahahahahahahaha…"

PP: "Rambo? Rambo wrote poetry? Well, I can believe it. That bit where he screams, ‘I couldn’t find his legs’ in First Blood is the most moving piece of cinema I’ve ever seen in my entire bloody life. The whole auditorium was crying at that moment, and I don’t mind admitting that if I’d been there, I’d have given John Rambo a bloody big hug and not felt ashamed about it. So he was a poet, too? I can well imagine it, the horrors of war, the thrill of the fight, the pain, the ecstasy…"

PP: "Watch it, mate. I’ve nothing against them, but I’ve always been as straight as a bloody die, and proud of it too."

PP: "Prose sounds a bit dodgy too."

PP: "Oh right, I see what you mean, my novel! I mean, well it’s funny you should say that, because I have recently completed my first ever novel."

PP: "Yes, and it’s a real page-turner at that – bloody compelling stuff, I can tell you. It’s the story of this hunky young television presenter, Piers Parvis, who combines presenting a children’s magazine programme with working as a spy for the British government. There’s murder, intrigue, and a bevy of leggy lovelies who can’t help but fall for Parvis’ manly charms."

PP: "Doctor Yes – and it’s in your bookstores soon, priced nineteen pounds and ninety five pence. A bargain."

PP: "Sod that! How am I going to make any wedge from that? Reading it without paying for it? That’s theft, for Christ’s sake!"

PP: "Thank you."