Last year, she went to Dublin, stayed three months, made a packet along Leeson Street. Said: Catholics were always the best clients, paid double for the guilt factor, and that the club scene was seriously hot. Did I miss her? Some. She returned with, I kid you not, an Irish accent and a dose of the clap. Don’t know which was worse. To mark her return, we’d done the West End, some boring musical-one of Lloyd Webber’s inflictions-and then an overpriced supper at the Cafe Royal. I was locked into my American phase. You can imagine the horror, Mandy murdering the brogue and me doing a cracker from the woods of Tennessee. Add a batch of Tequila Slammers and you had medieval carnage.