So there I am at the doctor's, in my underpants, sucking in my gut...

I'm recovering from a minor operation. Stacey insisted that I go and see my doctor about a mole that she was worried about. I was fairly adamant that if it was regarding a mole then a vet might be more appropriate.

I'm recovering from a minor operation. Stacey insisted that I go and see my doctor about a mole that she was worried about. I was fairly adamant that if it was regarding a mole then a vet might be more appropriate. Big mistake. I'm already in hot water because of last week's Richard and Judy incident. I was on the show last week and became the victim of my own cuttings. Judy had spotted a particular article where the journalist had completely misquoted me. So there I was, suddenly sat on live TV listening as Judy referred to Stacey as "the most humourless woman in Britain". I froze, imagining the small mushroom cloud that must be appearing above the hotel that she was staying in.

I babbled back some nonsense but the damage was done. Richard and Judy had started bickering about something they had watched the night before.

The first time I'd been on this programme about five years ago I'd purposely fainted live on air as a protest to getting the B team of John Leslie and Fern Britton rather than Richard and Judy. I thought about redeploying this tactic but visions of Fern Britton's all-encompassing breasts, into which I had tumbled, kept running around my brain and I tried to stumble on with the interview. Because of all this I thought it might be better not to argue with Stacey and go and see whether the doctor could find the dodgy mole secreted somewhere in my body.

I hate going to the doctor's. I'm a total hypochondriac at the best of times: a recent nettle rash on my right shin allowed me to diagnose myself with the aid of the thousands of medical websites available as having advanced leg cancer. I was about to roar off to Cirencester general when Parker, my four-year-old daughter, managed to tell me what it was. I'm going to make sure that she goes into medicine as I can then plague her endlessly with my medical worries when I get older. I have a bad history with doctors. I remember wondering aloud to a group of friends about why doctors stick a thermometer up your bum when you are young before moving on to the more traditional under-the-tongue method later on in life? There was a long silence from the group before they made me repeat what I had said, and I realised that I had been the sole recipient of this particularly French medical practice. I'm still a little confused as to whether the family doctor sexually abused me for seven years or if it was normal in Francophile circles. I guess, like child brides, it just depends on where you grow up. There was also the curious school doctor who would have a quick fondle to "check if your testicles have dropped". Dropped where? I never found out but I assume all's well.

One of the reasons that I hate going to see my current doctor is that, no matter what I go to see him about, I end up standing in a small room with only my pants on desperately trying to remember if I changed them that morning. I stand there sucking in my gut as he and the nurse wander around the room looking at me from different angles. They must piss themselves when I leave the room. I imagine the nurse handing over a fiver going "I was sure he wouldn't do it this time". I can see the doctor dropping the grubby note into a huge glass jar already packed with other notes. They are both laughing and laughing...

I'm sticking to the internet for the moment until things get really bad. Mind you, I haven't shaved for a couple of days and there's some weird hair type stuff growing on my face... maybe I should just give him a call...