Closing time at the Windsor Castle pub. Beneath a plate bearing a portrait of Princess Diana, my godson is in full flow: "I want to be naughty!" he bellows. With each round he has consumed a pint of Stella and a large JD with coke. "You know what I really fancy? Going to Sophisticats and doing drugs." I make polite inquiries. The former is a lapdancing club. And he has no immediate access to the latter. Taking my role seriously, I admonish him. "Then tell me what I can do that's bad," he demands, adding quickly: "I don't want to be unfaithful." I doubt he can hold his piece straight enough to hit the toilet bowl during his frequent loo breaks. The liklihood of his rising to a sexual challenge is unlikely at best, and suicidal at worst. I say nothing. But against my better judgement, I let him and his boring IT buddy, come back to mine. "I can't go home to that bitch just yet," my godson says. This is just as well. She's hung up on him twice... "Fuck her," he shouts. I wish you would, I think. It might shut her up. And you. Every fifteen minutes, he goes out for a fag break. And amuses himself sweeping the front window with the yard broom. We have a £10,000 bet on whether it's the original glass... At two, his mate leaves. At three, I call time on my godson. Finally, half an hour later, he lurches off into the dawn: "I need to find a pizza." And to think he was once a choir boy;-)