The poor old fag hag has been sweating, writhing and choking her way round the lilac satin bedroom this last week (and not, I’m saddened to report, because the SKY plus man turned out to be a 6 foot black man with a nine inch cock.) No, it’s because she’s been struck down with some hideousness Crimea ward virus which has left her more spent than an X Factor evictee’s savings account. And now, top it off, the Ivy Tilsey cough has started. ‘I need drugs mother!’ I barked down the phone the other night, sounding like some progeny of Courtney Love. ‘What sort of thing darling?’ ‘I’m dying here… sleeping pills, hardcore opiates – anything that ends with an ‘ine’. You’re an actress for god’s sake. You must have something!’ So up she tuned with two Tesco Cold remedy capsules and some Covent Garden Soup Co Vichyssoise. How she can hold her head up high and call herself the child of an amphetamine popping, alcoholic I don’t know.