Guido, via e-mail...
“Five years ago, I somehow scored dinner with an actress who’d just got her big break in a short-lived BBC sitcom. To counteract an alarming inferiority complex, I had a couple of liveners before heading out to the restaurant, where I hit the wine – hard. Spectacularly pissed within the hour, she took pity on me and took me back to hers so I could sober up. I threw up on the way back, which was bad enough. But worse was to follow.
I woke at 3am on her sofa with a manic thirst and hunger so I grabbed her keys and headed out for a kebab. Finding everything shut, I came across a discarded Chinese in the gutter. It was then that I discovered a problem: I’d taken not her house keys, but the keys to her old Mini. Solution? I decided to kip in her car. So I wolfed down the cold, second-hand takeaway sludge before settling down in the front seat.
The next morning I was awoken by her hammering on the window, looking aghast. Sobering up instantly, I looked down to see the car strewn with bits of noodles, stir-fry and crackers… and a huge wet patch on the car seat where I’d pissed myself. Best not to name her, I think. She takes herself rather seriously these days. Her sitcom was shite, too.”