Wednesday 23 July

Not content with our colourful, occasionally lurid, set of Manc-made characters, often existing more for our own amusement than theirs, Bateman is deserting them and I for some weeks in the Mexican sun. Naturally I accuse him of gross cowardice, insinuate that he is simply distancing himself from a friend with powerful enemies; go on to threaten a civilian court martial which could lead to him being blanked at dawn (if either of us ever saw such a thing). In actual fact being guest of honour at a Day of the Dead parade, dressed as a skeleton while navigating scores of wailing foreign types, will probably be at least as frightening as remaining my right-hand man (though his main preoccupation is wondering which skin conditioner will best show off his bone structure). Tonight Bateman hosts a send-off at his apartment, or more accurately upon his smoking gallery (the first of many lapses). We may be high up but the tone is reassuringly low - DH and Bron providing the (outside) toilet humour while on departure I know not whether to worry more about Sydney’s short stagger down Oldham Street or Moony’s moonlit cycle to the shaky suburbs. Both make it home, I’m happy to report, while the latest transatlantic news is that while Bateman’s clipper appears to be manned only by a skeleton crew, the silhouette of his well-sculpted hair has been spotted off the coast of Cancun, its owner cackling at the thought of sordid adventures ahead.