A day in the life of Damain Thopmson

A blood-crazed ferret

I shudder into wakefulness as my alarm clock rings (today it plays my friend James MacMillan's cantata "The Lord smote Glasgow Rangers"). Giving my teddy-bear, Benedict, a quick hug, I leap out of bed and get dressed. Breakfast is a simple affair of cupcakes and coffee.

Telegraph cupcakes. Can you spot Cristina Odone, Tim Stanley and Ed West?

Of course on Sundays I omit breakfast and go straight to the Oratory to look for liberal and modernist tendencies in the Latin Mass, but on weekdays I go to Telegraph Towers where I hold the highly important job of Editor of Telegraph Blogs. This means that all the bloggers kow-tow to me, bring me cupcakes, and laugh at my jokes. The only person I have to fear is the Telegraph's Editor, Tony Gallagher, who is a West Ham United fan, and regularly says things like "I don't like your face, Thompson, you little squirt. Beat it!" But now I've stopped blogging on religious topics, he doesn't kick me so often.

One big happy family of bloggers

Like most journalists, I spend most of the morning reading the papers, insulting people on Twitter, and swapping silly jokes. But Friday is my big day, as I have to write a Saturday column for the Telegraph's distinguished readership of London lawyers and retired colonels. So I look for pictures of fat people with silly hair or strange clothes, and weave a hilarious (or as my brainy friend Tom Chivers says "an hilarious") narrative about them.

Arthur Roche, always good for a laugh

The lost sheep?

My Telegraph column also provides the material for a very witty blog. It attracts comments from the intellectual elite, who post under names like GI Joe, Mahatmacoatmabag, An Aussie Carrot, Chap With Wings, Molybdenite, Cutley in Florence, Ernest Chaussette, and The Great Stalin. Most of these names are real, but I suspect that one or two may be made up!

Well, the day draws on, and in the evening there are many options open to me. Sometimes I stand outside Victoria station selling copies of my new book The Fix to commuters. "Big issue!" I shout, as I think that addiction is indeed a big issue for all of us. Many commuters agree, and some are so impressed that they give me 50p, saying "Get yourself some tea, young man," without even taking a copy of my book.

Did I mention that I have written a book?

This is the book of which the great Clive James, writing in the prestigious Wallamaloo Possum-Breeder's Gazette said "Some wonderful books have been written on the subject of addiction. If you want something totally different, try this book instead." Praise indeed, I'm sure you'll agree!

Another thing I may do in the evening is go home to Notting Hill, and play one of my 50,000 CDs. I am a very cultured chap, and I have 94 recordings of James MacMillan's Orchestral Variations on Donald, where's yer troosers? Often I lie in my bath, playing games with my plastic duck, Donata, and singing along to James's immortal music.

Before I know it, it's 9 p.m. and time for bed. A quick anonymous phone call to one of my enemies (e.g. Austin Ivereigh or Johann Hari), with a burst of demonic laughter, and we've reached the end of a perfect day. Off to bed with my teddy-bear!

Good night, Damian!

Opeless Dei

We has had a lotta trubble from Farver Arfur lately, cos de Pop have turned down his applicatoin to run a private branch of de Inquisitoin. Arfur wanted to move away from traddy ideas about forgivvin sinners, and settle down to a bit of torcherin instead. So he is furrious dat de Pop is talkin about luvvin your nieghbor, a traddy practise wot was outlawed by Vattican II (I fink dat's de name of de Pop wot did it).

Dis week Farver Arfur was givven de job of hearin a little girl's confessoin. "Mom said I was very nuaghty and stayed in bed cuddlin my teddy bear," said dis Sattanic kiddie. Farver Arfur was very angry. "You is an evil sinner wot is surely gonna go to Hell for dat," he told de little girl, "so I is confiscatin your teddy bear and burnin it."

Three cheers for Farver Arfur, he is sure is good at condenming iddles.

As a result of dis firm stand on mortal sins, Damain Thopmson telephonned Arfur to say dat he shuold join Opeless Dei. Dis aint to be confussed wiv Opuss Dei, wot is de one wiv de albinno monks in De Vinchi Cod. Nor is it rellated to Opus Sum, which is a club for poeple like my Anti Moly wot likes eating Austrialan marsuppials. Nope, Opeless Dei is a soceity for Cathlics wot is otherwise unemployyable. Dat's why Damain suggestted it as a way of keepin Farver Arfur off de streets.

Dat's Farver Arfur just after dey told him de news dat he was elligible to join Opeless Dei. He's been for a swim, dat's why he aint dressed as a cosstume holly man rihgt now.

We has found out dat Opeless Dei is very keen on flagulation, which means dat Arfur still gets to whip poeple if he finks dey has sinned against de Catacoms of de Churhc. Perhapps he have finally fuond his true vocatoin.

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My bruvver Bosco (Pop Bozodict) has decidded to go on a retreet, dat is why you aint heard anyfink from him lately. He went into de wilderness (Lost Angels) and he is now on top of a pole medditatin like St Simon Skylights.

So far he aint come up wiv any profound medditatoins, he just shouts "You aint saved like me, stupid" at de passers-by in de street. If he comes up wiv any more wise sayings, I will let you know.

Not to be outdone, Anti Moly started tellin me dat she used to be a pole dancer when she was young. I fink dis story needs to be told some uvver time.

Bosco is concused

Ullo Bosco, my derest bruvver, you go and have a lie-down while I explanes what happened today.

We got Grate-Ant Molly settled in a room wiv a winder overlookin de rode, so dat if anyone came past she could go out and screem abbuse at dem, dis is called a hobby. We also got wirless internet, so she can keep up wiv de discussions on de bloggs. Dere is some scandle involvin Joanne Hairy, de chap what came and interviwed Bosco, and dis means dat Grate-Ant Molly needs to pick on all de Cathlics on de blogg and call dem names, dis is called inteliggent debate.

Well, Bosco was in de front gardden getting ready to kiss an ornnament dat we put there. It is Saint Peter de fisherman and here he is.

Suddenly a lapptop computter came flyin out of de winder of Anti Molly's room, together with a screem of "Lies! All lies! I was never banned!"

Bosco was underneeth, and got concused. From then on, he have been behavin very strangley... I don't mean his normal ecentricties, much worse. He said he had been a sinnful person and wanted to confess and get absollution. Dis is what Cathlics do (in de Calumny Chappel we knows dat we is saved and so dere is no need to worry about sins). So he went off to see Father X. O'Cise who lives neerby.

About five hours later I gotta phone call, "Dis is Fr O'Cise, can you come and colect Bosco, he is confessin his sins, and so far have only got up to de age of 9 months when he frew his teddy bare out of de pram sayin it was an iddle. I cant take any more of dis."

Bein a good bruvver I brought Bosco home (Anti Molly had gone out to buy gin). He is still concused as he says he wants to apollogise for tryin to kill me. I fink he's confussed as I certainly aint notissed him killin me.

Here is de first iddle dat Bosco tried to desstroy when he was a luvly baby.