“Answer it” she hissed. “If it is the police, tell them you’re here alone. I’ll be in the wardrobe.”

I opened the bedroom door and, much as Major General Scobie did, came face to face with an identical figure. Except he, obviously, wasn’t wearing one an outfit previously worn by Lorne Cossette. At least he made no mention of doing so.

“Yes?” I said nonchalantly, all the while telling him ‘Help Me I’m Being Held Here Against My Will’ in blinked Morse code.

“I’ve been told that there is a woman in this room who is insistent that she have s-e-x-u-a-l intercourse with the Dennis Brent impersonator.”

“This is substantially correct” I replied.

“Then I demand to be let in. I am the Dennis Brent impersonator and it only seems right that I should come here and let it be known in the strongest possible terms that I find the whole idea utterly disgusting. Whatever she may say or do to me I fully intend to leave here first thing in the morning having left her in no doubt at all about my position on s-e-x-u-a-l matters.”

“Did a man about so high” I mimed, “with hair that goes sort of” I mimed again, “and glasses which look roughly like” a third mime, “put you up to this?”

“I can’t reveal my confidential source, naturally, but if you ask Mr Saragh-Jayne himself I am sure he will confess of his own accord.”

“Then we must exchange clothes and you can take my place in there” I said. He readily agreed and, as reluctant as I was to bid a probable final goodbye to Lorne Cossette’s uniform, it was a relief to get back in some good, hardwearing tweed. Even if it was uncomfortably warm from another man’s body. There was also a regrettable dampness which suggested to me that his researches into Dennis Brent’s habits hadn’t extended as far as the correct way to prepare an anal compress.

The Dennis Brent impersonator took my place in the mad woman’s bedroom and I hope they had a thoroughly miserable time. I also hope they didn’t do anything too messy near those original production documents as I really couldn’t handle the guilt of two rare production document accidents in one day.

My employee met me by the lifts.

“Was this your doing?” I asked.

“I thought you might need a hand. All in a day’s work” replied Saragh-Jayne.

“Where is Francois Devine?”

“He’s still in the restaurant. I believe they are about to…” he paused as the hotel was rocked by what sounded like a geyser erupting or possibly an impossibly large water balloon being filled beyond its maximum capacity, “…serve the after dinner mints.”

“Do you think we should…?”

“I think they’ll manage without us” said Saragh-Jayne and we left the hotel as discretely as we could.

The village was in a heightened state of anticipation as the street party loomed. Everyone we passed shook me warmly by the hand or told me how much they enjoyed my work or asked me to autograph something. One old woman even had a complete collection of leather-bound editions of ‘Mucky Devastation’ and asked that I personally dedicate each one to her.

I was writing away when a cart was driven past. On top of it was a straw figure with a moustache and a tweed ensemble.

“They’re going to burn it as one of the attractions” explained the old woman.

“Burn it? BURN IT? That is completely unreasonable” I snapped. “They’re meant to be celebrating my life not turning me into some kind of second rate Guy Fawkes. Besides, with a couple of sturdy leather patches there must be years of life left in that jacket.” I stormed off after the cart and heard Saragh-Jayne tell the startled old woman that I was very concerned about “all aspects of Dennis Brent’s image rights portfolio”.

My pursuit of the cart didn’t last long as I quickly became bogged down in crowds of people. The whole of Firkinside appeared to be there for the party.

“Dennis Brent on a stick?” asked a street urchin. He offered me a rather unpleasant looking lollipop that I gather was meant to resemble my face. I shook my head and he went away.

“Dennis Brent mask?” called another urchin. I ignored him.

“Dennis Brent souvenir mug? T-shirt? Keyring?” shouted another.

“Stuffed Dennis Brent bear?” offered a fourth. The whole of the high street seemed to have gone Dennis Brent crazy.

“Framed ‘Dennis Brent is Dead’ edition of the Bendaton Bugle?”

“No thank you” and I pressed on.

Saragh-Jayne caught me up as I stood in line to buy a ticket. I was loathed to part with money on such an occasion but curiosity was getting the better of me. Like the time I paid fifty pounds to sit next to Elisabeth Sladen on the train from London to Norwich.

“I’m bored of waiting” said my employee. He made a megaphone out of a copy of the Radio Times and bellowed to the throng. “Make way – the Dennis Brent impersonator is coming through”. The crowd parted like a small group of actors on the set of a studio based production when the camera moves towards them and requires plenty of space to get into the position specified in the camera script.

“Gordon Bennett – it really is you” said the man selling the tickets. He waved us through without charge on the condition that I bless his first edition of ‘The Wheel in Space’ and autographed his six month old baby. It didn’t matter to me whether he’d become a bit muddled in the excitement.

We wandered round the rather disappointing festival village for a few minutes and I remarked to my employee that the whole thing was rather muted.

“A disappointing all round” I concluded. At this point everyone began chanting as one.

“TEN!” they cried. I was fogged.

“NINE!” they continued. I turned to my employee for guidance.

“EIGHT!” they declared. I asked a passer by if there was an order of service or some other reference material I could consult.

“SEVEN!”

“SIX!

“FIVE!”

I noticed Saragh-Jayne had joined in the countdown. I asked him why but he just shrugged.

“FOUR!”

“THREE!”

“TWO!”

The village clock chimed midnight and the biggest fireworks display I’d ever seen burst into life. The awestruck crowd watched as rocket after rocket blazed into the air, exploding like a doomed planet being vaporised by an evil galactic regime. For ten solid minutes the thunderous din continued as several tonnes of explosives were let off in the name of entertainment. When the last of the fireworks had done its work and the thick clouds of smoke were all that was left of the pyrotechnics, the villagers signified the opening of the Dennis Brent Memorial Street Party with a frankly disappointing,