8am Wake up in god-awful hotel in Sheffield, for Cities of Britain. Why did I pitch this series? Hate this country. Heave self out of bed.
8.15am Tweet: “Glorious morning in Sheffield, gem of the north. Truly top notch.” Is Sheffield technically the north? Do we care? Bloody Twitter.
8.30am Order a full English. Diana gives me “the look” over her sodding muesli. Never works when she tags along. Just like it didn’t with Wife One.
8.45am Eggs overdone. Waiter incompetent. Almost give him the “Don’t you know who I am?” treatment, but old biddy is hovering, pen in hand.
9am Old biddy pounces for autograph. Fifteen minutes of fawning ensues.
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10am Shoot rest of Sheffield episode. Feign fascination with steel industry as hypothermia sets in. Producer asks me to sound “more worldly”. Suddenly roar: “If I sounded any worldlier, we’d all be bloody comatose.” Seems to do the trick. Must be careful I don’t do a Clarkson on him. Distinct possibility.
2pm Usual stodge from catering trailer. How can Diana expect me to get under 17 stone? Finish with crumble, since damage already done.
3pm Attempt to write my column, The Affabalite, on train. Keep nodding off. Body clock wrecked by decades on the breakfast show.
4pm Whisky from buffet car. Di gives me the look, again. Awful family across the aisle engage us in conversation. Woman says Stephen Fry and I are her “dream dinner-party guests”. Damn Fry.
6pm Talk at minor literary festival. Di says my Panama hat looks like Poirot. Bit rich, when she dresses like a Last of the Summer Wine extra.
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6.30pm Frightful provincial crowd. Book-signing interminable.
8pm Charity gala dinner. Sushi, God help us. Seated beside ghastly American banker. Fortunately can’t catch half of what he says. Why does nobody consider acoustics at these things?
10.30pm Give speech. Introduced as “the most affable man in broadcasting”.
11pm Sit down to applause. American says: “Awesome job, Stephen.” Unleash inner Clarkson.