I had a bizarre dream last night.

I was backstage at the Palladium, hob nobbing with famous people I didn't recognise when one of the cleaners presented me with a cheque for £215,000. At this point I remember feeling distinctly sad, and so I questioned a nearby barmaid.

"Have I been sacked from Jongleurs?"

The look on her face as she turned away said it all. I was devastated. I asked everybody what I'd done, and then spent two hours pleading and crying with one of the chefs because I laughed at his dungarees, which made him spill diesel everywhere.

I phoned Donna the next day, from the Palladium where I live now, and asked her why she'd sacked me, and why such a small pay off. £215k is only about 5 years work depending on how often you gig for Jongleurs. She told me I was lucky they weren't suing me for £100,000 back, for causing a chemical spillage in the cupboard.

I broke down and sobbed my heart out, until Julia rescued me from the floor, and put my arm round her, and walked me out of the room and up some stairs. Without really seeing where I was going, and still sobbing uncontrollably, she walked me across the stage where I was hit by a wall of sound and light. About 5000 people were stood in the audience cheering and clapping me.

I looked up, utterly confused, before Julia leaned in and whispered "The cheque is your prize money for this year's best Jongleurs Compere".

I collapsed on stage, bewildered and still sobbing, with the Golden Snitch clutched safely in my left hand.

The next thing I remember was being in hospital, with Joss leaning over me and saying "Those bastards. I'll kill them".

"What happened?"

"They got you mixed up with Daniel Kitson. The cunts."

And then Carey Marx walked in and said "I voted for you mate" and walked out carrying the chef's dungarees.

Happy Days.