We played hosts at the weekend. Well, I say hosts. Apart from a short stroll to the Playhouse Theatre to enjoy the lavatorial humour of Jenny Eclair, the only hosting we did was to pop the celebratory corks. Our house guests, my old mucky mucker, Ian, and his young Celtic tiger, Matt, were grabbing a few days away from the Smoke and the Christmas scrum. Matt’s generosity at the bar meant that I can’t remember much of Ms Eclair’s high-velocity act though I can confirm it was deliciously funny, full-on, filthy and packed with an abundance of menopausal references to female plumbing. An arctic snap swept across the flatlands and the big skies dribbled with sleet so we decided to cancel the city tour. Instead, we settled down to a warm summit of plonk and gossip with a boozy interval of Strictly Come Dancing on Auntie. Our guests steadfastly refused to let us put our hands in our pockets which was naughty and typically stubborn but gratefully received by these poor old provincial poofs. We sent them packing with a couple of Tesco’s bags (to transport their livers in).