A few years ago, I was contacted by the Producer/Executive Producer/Top In Charge Thing Man of a new ITV show.

Was there any chance, he asked, of coming up with some sort of website for him? He didn’t really have any money – oh, and it would have to be done quite quickly as he was off to Australia in two weeks, for the opening show. But this internet thing looked an interesting development.

Things I should have done, following contact from the Producer/Executive Producer/Top In Charge Thing Man of a new ITV show:

Race over to see him to discuss it. Leave my job, taking the brightest and best people with me, paying them out of my overdraft, money raised on credit card cheques and the sale of my furniture and heirlooms. Agree to work day and night to build and run a brilliant website for nothing, in return for the online rights to the brand for a fixed period and a share of merchandising sold through the web. Retire to Barbados ten years later.

Things I should not have done, following contact from the Producer/Executive Producer/Top In Charge Thing Man of a new ITV show:

Write him a polite but firm email telling him to eff off and stop wasting my time. Write a further email to everybody in my entire company, explaining that some idiot was planning to take G-list celebrities to a jungle in Australia and make them do moronic tasks, for the sake of a TV show that was clearly going to embarrassingly and publicly bomb. Press ‘send’ (twice).

This thought crops up every year at about this time, as I traipse out into my small garden in Norfolk to offer the chickens some scraps.

“Stoppit! Stoppit!” I shout, as the big chickens peck furiously at the scrawny one.

I wave my arms in their direction. The big chickens skulk away. They are like all bullies, who are cowards and run away if you stand up to them, apart from the ones that were at my school.

I tramp off to see Short Tony, keeping an eye on the perpetrators as I leave.

“There is bullying in the henhouse,” I report to him. “The Light Sussexes were assaulting the small one with a wonky comb.”

“Samantha Sad?” replies Short Tony. He calls the weak, scrawny chicken ‘Samantha Sad.’ I think this might be contributing to its self-esteem issues.

“That’s the one,” I confirm. “No wonder it has been hiding in the henhouse all day. I lifted it out as I was a bit fed up with its insipid behaviour. But the other chickens just started attacking it.”

We consider this for a while. Chicken bullying is a problem that we have not faced before, and we are at a bit of a loss as to how to address it.

“I suppose I could get some posters made up,” ponders Short Tony. “To try to make them realise the pain that they are causing.”

“And to let them know that we have a zero-tolerance policy towards bullying in the henhouse,” I agree. “Either that, or we could shoot the smaller one and eat it.”

This is good. Nobody can say that we are not problem solvers. We have been faced with this difficult issue, and already we have come up with two excellent solutions.

“I will keep an eye on things,” I promise, as I take my leave. Bullying is not big and it is not clever, and being a chicken is no excuse.

“What is it?” demands the LTLP, casting searching glances at the unusually-shaped package

“It is some drum sticks. From Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason,” I explain, turning them over in my hands in wonder.

Drumsticks!!! From Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason!!! I am both taken aback and lost in amazement. It is great being an author, comfortable in such celebrity circles. But I am not too big to acknowledge that I am a huge fan of this man who, in many ways, defined the Pink Floyd sound, ensuring that their songs went ‘bom, tish, bom, tish, bom, tish, bom, ba-bom’ rather than ‘bom, tish, bom, tish, bom, tish, bom tiddle-dee-omm-pomm bang boo.’ (I apologise if this is a bit technical; I am trying to draw a balance.)

The drum sticks are signed, with a little message. Honestly, this is the best thing that has happened to me, ever. I resolve to be cool about it, however, and not get carried away.

Later, I go to bed, having practised some air drumming. They would be excellent drum sticks, even without their huge celebrity connection. They make the air sound massive, like a wall of post-psychedelic four-four sound. But I am determined not to get carried away.

My dream that night is that I am the drummer in Pink Floyd. This is a bit odd, as I do not normally dream, and they already have a drummer (who has sent me some drum sticks – see above), but obviously he has been sacked and replaced with me. Paradoxically, I am using my Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason drum sticks to do the drumming with, and luckily I seem to be a much better drummer in my sleep than I am in real life. It is brilliant. We play all their album tracks. Fortunately, I am still being cool and not getting carried away with things.

Disaster!!! One of the drum sticks breaks during a fill in ‘Comfortably Numb.’ The bulby bit at the end snaps clean off, leaving me with one intact drum stick, and a celebrity-signed piece of wood. At this point I wake up with a horrible jolt and there is sweat pouring off me, presumably due to the exertion of drumming in my sleep.

At this point I weigh up whether this is very very sad or not. I decide not, as I am a very grounded person, and not the sort of man to get carried away with some silly Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason drum stick fantasy existence; honestly, this sort of thing I am quite blasé about as it happens all the time.

Later, I see Short Tony in the pub.

“I got some drum sticks from Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason,” I tell him.

A rare personal appearance if you’re in Norfolk and want to pop along…

Some pork pies, yesterday.

I’ll be at the market at Creake Abbey tomorrow morning (6 November) in a dual role – firstly helping the Pie Lady (from page 151) to sell her delicious pork pies; secondly to sign a few books for Christmas. It will be, as far as we are aware, retail’s first ‘book and pork pie’ stall.

And whereas Tony Blair wanted armed guards for his book appearances, we are hoping to work out some sort of ‘book and pie’ joint deal, which is far more civilised. Honestly, had we have been in charge, Iraq would have never happened.

If you’re in the vicinity, hope to see you there…

“You are determined to moan all week, aren’t you?” accuses the LTLP.

I smart at the injustice. Actually, I am determined to be cheerful. Butlins has been a central plank of British working class holiday culture for decades, an icon for people with my sort of uncomplicated English family background. It has been celebrated on TV (‘Hi de Hi’) and in books (Brian Keenan’s excellent ‘An Evil Cradling.’) I am fascinated as to how it will have adapted to provide a holiday experience for the twenty-first century. I would explain all this, but the wind and rain is howling off the North Sea and the Baby is crying and I am fed up with shouting.

I peruse a leaflet we’ve been given. “We can go and see the stars of ‘The X Factor’ tonight,” I moot. “That might be interesting.”

There are no takers for my stars of ‘The X Factor’ plan. It is a shame. We have all the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the big names of tomorrow and it seems foolish to waste it. I take Child #1 to see the puppet show instead.

The puppet show is a hit. Child #1 enjoys the large crocodile with sunglasses who dances around on strings to the tune of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ by Guns ‘n’ Roses. There is a small inkling at the back of my mind that this is not what Guns ‘n’ Roses envisaged when they originally wrote ‘Welcome to the Jungle.’ But perhaps it is, and the song has been misinterpreted. I am hoping that the next act will feature an enormous purple cockerel jiving around to ‘Relax’ but to no avail. They are missing a trick there.

When the rain stops, we go to the funfair. I have to cover Child #1′s ears as the man in front of us in the queue is shouting at the attendant that this is the most fucking bollocks funfair that he’s ever been to. He is upset because the go-karts are not working, the dodgems are not working, the whirly-roundy-thing is not working and the kids train ride is not working. He is being unreasonable as this leaves at least six attractions, three of which are not in the ‘you have to pay extra’ class. I buy a token for the junior quad bikes and watch the ex-Toddler pootle around the track. She loves it so much that I go to get her another go, but the ride is closing for lunch. We walk back through the arcade and she plays on the driving machines which she enjoys, even though she is too foolish to realise that you have to put money in them.

We take three more days of the bracing and health-giving Eastern sea air. Unfortunately I go down with some sort of horrible bug on the fourth day and am confined to chalet.

It is the nicest thing in the world to take your family away on holiday. Everybody loved it, especially my mother-in-law. I am glad that I have been to Butlins, as I fear for its future in a world of ‘not having to go to Butlins.’ But I can tick it off the list and move on.