The elder statesman, best remembered for his Mr Whippy hair.

My subconscious is HAVING A FRICKEN PARTY. Would you like to come along? Wouldja? Bring a bottle.

Last night I dreamed I was in a lovely, old library of the sort the Georgians used to have – floor to ceiling dark wooden shelves. Little reading tables dotted about with curios on them – it was a private library, not a public one. And me, Nathan off Misfits (yes, not Robert Sheehan, the actor: Nathan) and … get this … Douglas Hurd … were all having a bit of a party. WOO! We were sliding about on those ladders that roll along the shelves. We were cackling. There were cakes.

Douglas Hurd.

Doug. Las. Hurd.

I remember thinking “your hair looks like an ice-cream, Douglas. Like the pale folds of a Mr Whippy, fresh swirled into its cone.”

That wasn’t a sexual thing, btw. I think stuff like that about people/buildings/trees/the pavement, all the time.

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