“You can’t both be Dennis Brent impersonators” said my employee.

“Don’t be pathetically stupid” snapped the impostor. “It must by obvious even to a prole like you that I am the authentic Dennis Brent.”

“Utter rubbish – you are nothing more than a cheap forgery. The Mechanoid to my Dalek” I retorted.

“Richly comic, whoever you are, but your convention calibre remark does not impress upon me your authenticity. You are a copy – a facsimile – a clone. And not a very good one.”

“You look nothing like Dennis Brent” I told him. “Your hair is too fair, your moustache is too effeminate, your glasses are too flimsy, your clothes are too new, your aroma is too soapy and you are much too thin.”

“All this wittering is acidising my a-n-a-l unguent. Doctor Flapjack warned me not to get too stressed or the experimental gel might begin to ferment and bubbles could form” announced the fake.

“You don’t even sound like Dennis Brent.”

“What is all this commotion?” panted Francois Devine. “I have been told I cannot have any more nibbles until Dennis Brent comes back in and signs some… oh good mother of god, there are two of you.”

“What do you mean, there are two of me?” I demanded. “This… this… Edmund Warwick wannabe turns up and you are ready to welcome into your inner circle so he can infiltrate and kill.”

“I’m so confused” wailed Francois Devine.

“I didn’t realise there was so much competition on the apparently lucrative Dennis Brent impersonator circuit” said Saragh-Jayne. “Look, chaps, I don’t know whether you to have a history – as rivals, lovers or just spitters of poison across an internet chatroom – but that crowd is going to get ugly any minute unless they get a Dennis Brent impersonator to sign their books and insult them in a vaguely autistic way.”

“Well said, Saragh-Jayne, I shall go and satisfy my people. You and Francois Devine deal with this nobody.”

“You can’t just” began the impostor but Francois Devine stuffed one of his large woollen pie cosies into his mouth and he was silenced.

“Where should we put him?” asked Francois Devine.

“Leave it to me” said my employee, tapping his nose in a way that suggested he’d done this sort of thing before. I hope he isn’t one of those disgusting people who enjoys tying gentlemen up and putting things in their mouths at the weekend. Still, I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt and let him do what he had to do as long as it was for my benefit.

I got back to my table and earned another round of applause just for sitting down and giving a description of my recent (fictional) visit to the lavatory.

“I’m amazed you can even sit down after that description” said a young chap as he passed me a copy of ‘A Critical Study of the Correlation Between Hair Colour and Evil Intent Between 1964 and 1985’.

“That was nothing” I assured him. “I was warned by Doctor Flapjack that if I became too stressed that my experimental unguent could begin to ferment and bubbles would form around my infected…” I stopped when I realised I was using the fake Dennis Brent’s material. That would never do – I was having a hard enough time persuading those closest to me that I was the genuine Dennis Brent impersonator without giving them additional reasons to suspect I wasn’t who I claimed to be.

“Could you write ‘To Gareth, Don’t be pathetically stupid, Regards Dennis Brent’ please?”

“With pleasure.”

“No – not with pleasure – with undisguised bitterness. There is no point having a Dennis Brent impersonator if he’s going to be pleasant. It’s like Nazis – if you hire a bunch of Nazis for a fete or party you want them to be angry and horrible. It is the worst feeling in the world to find that you’ve hired a bunch of Nazis only to see them handing out drinks and making conversation with your guests. That was the worst bar mitzvah ever.”

“Quite” I said, motioning the staff to move him along. The next signee plonked a leather bound copy of ‘November 15^th 1970 – A Day in the Life of Douglas Camfield’ on to the table and asked me if I would sign her bosom.

“But madam – you have this beautiful book – why would you want me to sign your bosom?” I asked.

“You don’t think I have a beautiful bosom?” she replied, unbuttoning her blouse and showing me that which should remain between husband, wife and gynaecologist.

“I wouldn’t like to say” I began. Fortunately my spectacles steamed up almost immediately and I couldn’t see anything through the steam. I might as well have been looking at a pair of Barbara Bains through the mist.

“Oh very well, you funny little prude, you can sign my book.”

“Thank you” I said, wiping my glasses on my tie and regaining my composure. “What would you like me to write?”

“I’d like you to write your telephone number, you sexy little anal retentive.”

“I’m… between telephones at the moment” I said. “And its being repaired so I don’t know when I’ll be able to receive calls again. Besides, I’ve lost it and I had a bump on the head so I wouldn’t be able to remember my number anyway. And it’s been cut off.”

“The phone?”

“No – the phone. Oh, you didn’t make the remark I was expecting. How embarrassing. I thought you’d make a remark about me having had my genitals removed with a knife.”

“Have you had your genitals removed with a knife?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good. Have dinner with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have dinner with me. And then we can go back to my place and make use of your still very much attached genitals.”

“Madam, I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of a book signing. I’m only supposed to sign your book and then you move on and…” but she had stuck her tongue in my mouth before I could explain that the next person should move up to the desk and make their request. By dying, I appeared to have not only become extremely popular but irresistible to women.