Janet Street-Porter

The truth about me, Courtney, and that 'brambles ramble'

Did I mention a middle-aged female drug-user with a bad hair job? Funny that. By noon my phone was receiving texts at a rapid rate urging me to read the News of the World. I stomped up to the local shop, ignored the slightly shocked expression on the face of the nice Asian lady behind the counter, and purchased a copy. It was the usual old rubbish, tits out here and there, lost children a-plenty, legs akimbo and dozens of dirty rats from Dunstable to Dundee. But as I hadn't had a miracle birth on holiday, or shagged a gorgeous beach attendant who might have sold his story for £5.50 - indeed I spent my entire vacation with a gaggle of gay men - my chances of appearing as a kiss'n'tell victim were slim.

As my ex-husband sold his "Janet is a beast in bed" story to them only last December (cashing in on my TV exploits in the jungle), he's going to have to wait a couple more years before he can give that load of rubbish its fourth airing. But hang on! Splashed across the centre spread was the astonishing story - and, let's face it, there have been many astonishing stories in her life - of prototype Wild Child Courtney Love's extraordinary fling with Alan Partridge, aka Steve Coogan. It seemed to be the usual orgy of drugs, more drugs, sloppy sex, love notes and sorry ending to the saga, with Courtney telling the reporter that she was indeed pregnant with a baby Partridge, but wasn't sure whether to keep it or not.

She then went on to make the usual Courtney-style series of mind-boggling claims, along the lines of "I have shagged 15 out of the top 20 sexiest men in the world, including a week-long fling with Brad Pitt". Then, the horror started: "On the flip side, there's Janet Street-Porter, I really fancy her. She and I have been for a walk ..." MEANING WHAT EXACTLY, COURTNEY???

Courtney seems to imply to the readers that we'd indulged in a spot of lesbian lust out in the heather. I accept that for some unknown reason she finds me a love object, and there's not a lot I can do about that. But as for going for a walk?

Here's the truth about my alleged ramble in the brambles with Kurt Cobain's motormouth widow. (By the way, the "Screws" didn't bother ringing me to check their facts; I suppose allegations of lesbian sex don't count as libel in their neck of the woods.)

A few years ago I met Courtney at a dinner party in the south of France at Elton John's house during the Cannes Film Festival. She arrived very late, halfway through the meal, wearing a sheer black nylon nightie with a pair of knickers and a skimpy bra, accessorised with a lot of diamond jewellery, very high heels and an ankle chain. In spite of the fake breasts, the enhanced lips and copious other bits of plastic surgery, she can look very good in the flesh, and is an entertaining, if somewhat incoherent conversationalist, switching from drugs to sex via Proust and back. She's intelligent, no mistake about that - remember the time she fought an important court case in Los Angeles in order to get musicians a better share of their royalties? No, Courtney is super-bright, witty and totally eccentric. We arranged to meet in London.

A few months later the arts dealer Jay Jopling, his wife, Sam Taylor-Wood, and I took Courtney for a fish dinner at J Sheekey. First I took the precaution of ringing the restaurant and asking for a table as far away from everybody else as possible. They were confused - didn't I want my usual slot? No, I replied, we were bringing someone who might be a bit outrageous, someone with a very loud voice who swore and drank a lot. "Sounds like you, Janet," said John, the manager. I put the phone down.

During dinner (again she arrived very late, with a man she claimed was going to produce her next movie, whom she then ignored) she didn't eat much, but went over to the next table and asked the couple if one of them was a transvestite. Luckily they saw the funny side of it. She actually sat with them for a while drinking, and then remembered she was with us. Then, after copious amounts of booze, we all went to The Groucho Club. There Courtney told me she'd watched all my BBC Television walking series on tape while on tour, and did I fancy having sex with her?

Try as I may, I don't fancy women and so, as politely as I could, I gave her the brush-off ... and then, as she was clearly desperate to have sex with someone, I introduced her to a well-known pop guitarist. Quite honestly she was so wasted she could have had sex with a teabag and not noticed the difference. I made my excuses and left.

Months later I heard about her resultant, unsatisfactory sexual encounter when I ran into Courtney at a birthday dinner at the Beverly Hills hotel, the day after the Academy Awards. I was getting on famously with Sir Ben Kingsley, my new best friend, when the Crazed One lurched into view with Chloë Sevigny in tow. "Hi," she announced to Sir Ben. "I'm in love with Janet and she won't have sex with me. I've even offered to go on a ramble with the bitch but she doesn't want to know.

"And by the way, Janet, that bloke you told me to fuck was useless. He's got a dick like a weeny mushroom."

Soon Sir Ben was placed far away from me at dinner and Courtney had swapped the placements so she could bore Chloë and me to death droning on about her unrequited love for me, walking, the Yorkshire Dales, Charlotte Brontë, and everything English. Since her amazing appearance in the movie about Larry Flynt, her career has had more downs than ups. Her new album flopped and, although she's a good actress, no one (and who can blame them) wants to take the risk. She's been in and out of rehab and clearly the episode with Steve Coogan was just another attempt to grab the headlines and get some work. Mind you, after his disastrously wooden appearance in Around the World in 80 Days, Mr Coogan could also do with a bit of career advice.

Every now and then Courtney drops my name in an interview. She's mentioned me on her website several times and given me her mobile phone number. It's about as flattering as being fan-cied by Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen or the world's most wooden newsreader, Matthew Amroliwala.

I know Julie Birchill has found that a dabble in bisexuality can be a good career move, but I'm afraid Courtney just doesn't ring my bell, so don't bother buying the News of the World today, I haven't tried to flog them my version of events.

Preferring a ramble with a couple of crumblies in anoraks doesn't sell newspapers, does it?