I woke up this morning to discover that I'd been abducted by the greys in the night. (Very painful and worthy of the 'Contortionist of the Year Award' if you ask me.) They drank all my whisky, painted my tongue with some furry stuff, made my teeth ache, replaced my gallbladder with three large amniotic sacs, attached my Terry-Sedgwick-is-Gay boxer shorts to the top of Fleetwood lighthouse where, even as I type, they're proudly proclaiming the bearded Bloshovic's sexuality to a queasy seagull, and committed numerous other offences in my name. The north slope of Parlick Fell now has a carving of Tony Blair slipping John Prescott a crippler across it in much the same fashion as the White Horse of Uffington...only the little grey sods have signed my name at the bottom. They've also aged me by about fifteen years over night, given me a dodgy stomach and a bad case of bed spin and turned my kitchen upside down. My biggest worry right now is that the cucumber I'd been keeping in the fridge has gone missing and I've been walking around all morning bow-legged.