Alan Clark's Secret Court Diary: I parry his questions with haughty disdain

...as imagined by the Evening Standard's Peter Bradshaw who is, in turn, parodied by our own Kathy Marks

Tuesday, 16 December London

8am: After a hearty breakfast of muesli and yogurt, I gird my loins for the second day of my High Court action against the London Evening Standard. Max Hastings, the editor of that appalling comic, will live to regret the day that he decided to run a weekly spoof of my celebrated Diaries under the byline of that snivelling so-called journalist, Peter Bradshaw. As a literary figure of the highest repute, I cannot countenance the risk that readers may be duped into believing me to be the author of this low-grade trash.

On the way into court, I take a call on the mobile from my old friend, Jonathan Aitken. "Just to remind you, Al," he bawls down the line, "that all you need to cut out the cancer of bent and twisted journalism is the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of fair play." Much good it ever did him.

10.55am: Court starts, and I have to sit and watch someone called Patricia Powers, who claims to be a reader of the Evening Standard and one of my constituents. A tape is played of a letter that she dictated over the telephone to the Standard, in which she said that "my" columns had confirmed her suspicion that I really am "a nasty piece of work".

Mrs Powers tells the court that she does not want me as her MP because of my failure to uphold family values. She would prefer someone, she says, with 2.4 children and a dog. Does she not realise that I am the proud owner of three pure-bred Rotweilers, Leni, Eva and Hannah?

11.20am: My colleague Angela Browning sweeps in, looking radiant. Her check jacket, of a type favoured by our dear departed Leader, only serves to enhance her womanly curves. I struggle manfully to keep my composure. The fragrant Angela giggles most charmingly as she admits that she has never heard of Ruud Gullit. I detect a definite frisson when our eyes meet across the courtroom. I know that beneath that matronly exterior beats a passionate heart.

12.40pm: My hour is nigh, and Court 60 grows more crowded by the minute. Half a dozen lovely young women are draped against the back wall. News of my impending appearance must have spread far and wide. Finally, my name is called and I stride confidently to the witness box. But no sooner have I taken the oath in ringing tones than the case is adjourned for lunch.

2.05pm: I take the stand once again and assume an air of lofty gravitas. Geoffrey Hobbs, my QC, outlines my stature as a historian, to the accompaniment of some inexplicable sniggering at the back of the room. The odious Peter Prescott, counsel for the Standard, tells me that the only reason I have brought this case is because Bradshaw's columns are an insult to my "colossal vanity". I parry his questions with haughty disdain. There are gratifying gales of laughter from the public gallery. Prescott suggests that I am an arrogant man. I smile at him pityingly. Arrogant, moi?

3pm: Hastings, who lumbered in late, has now dozed off at the back of the court. The man is quite beyond belief. Prescott asks me if I am obsessed with my personal appearance. Wouldn't he be, if he had my physique at the age of 69? It's not my fault if women insist on throwing themselves at my feet.

4.30pm: Having reduced Prescott to mincemeat, I leave the box. Tomorrow, with a bit of luck, the case will finish, leaving me free to return to more agreeable pursuits.