A portly man in a gaudy faux-tweed outfit strode onto the stage. He was rosy cheeked and breathing smugly from his diaphragm. I took an instant dislike to him and seethed all the way to my front row seat. Francois Devine was waiting for me and dug an elbow into my ribs.

“This is all very flattering” he said stupidly.

“On the contrary, Francois Devine, there are three things I hate more than any others” I told him coldly.

“Women, h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s and lesbian Arabs?” he offered.

“Comic operas, bad comic operas and bad comic operas about me” I said by way of correction. “And I have every confidence this will be all three and more besides.”

On my recent stage stood the singer, his backing vocalists and a set which was an artist’s rendering of my viewing room (worryingly accurate – I suspected Mr Knockers had betrayed me and taken a job outside his usual decorating field). The singer cleared his throat theatrically and a tune which later researches told me was from a piece called ‘Pirates of Penzance’ began to play.

The best I can say of it was that I was right on all three counts – I hated it as comic opera, I hated it as bad comic opera and I hated it as bad comic opera about me. The rest of the audience – witless drones to a man, woman and child – enjoyed every wretched line of it and threw flowers, coins and undergarments at the overwhelmed opera singer. He’d clearly never had a reaction like it and he sang the whole song again as an encore. If anything they enjoyed it more the second time around as they could join in with their favourite bits. But the third time was probably their favourite. That or the fourth. The fifth was a little muted and by the sixth they were exhausted. They tried to rally for the seventh and eighth but thankfully called it a day after nine renditions. I was in great emotional and physical pain (have you ever sat next to an impossibly fat man while he laughs his way through bad comic opera? Count your blessings). The last thing I wanted to do was go up on stage and offer my congratulations to this musical character assassinator.

“I’m sure our Dennis Brent impersonator would love to come up on stage and offer his congratulations to our marvellous special guest” said the Gary Russell impersonator.

“I’ve never heard anything like it before” I said economically.

“Are you a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan?” he asked.

“No – I find them putrid.”

“Oh. But you enjoyed Mr Jellwick’s performance?”

“I’ve never heard anything like it before” I repeated. The Gary Russell impersonator seemed happy with that and led a further round of applause.

“But before you all leave to enjoy the rest of the all night Dennis Brent is Dead street party and carnival, I would just like to thank the writer of that splendid song. He’s here with us tonight – no no, not Gilbert and Sullivan because they’re dead! That would be awful to see. No, I’m of course talking about Britain’s coolest telehistorian and telehistorical entertainer, Mr Philip Stiffit.”

The audience, who a moment ago had been shuffling wearily out of the auditorium, sprung back into life and gave my nemesis an undeserved standing ovation. He walked smarmily onto the stage, basked in the adulation of the masses and came over to stand by me. He took me by the hand and pumped me for the benefit of the flashing camera bulbs.

“You’re up late Den” he murmured.

“…nis Brent impersonator” I said with contempt.