Why Being The Pack Leader Means Different Things In Thailand And Russia

This Wikileaks thing just goes on and on, doesn't it? And everyone seems so surprised by what's coming out. Greg and I just don't get it - what did people think happened behind the scenes?

"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."

"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."

"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.

Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,

"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."

It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:

"Tell me what you're wearing."

"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."

"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."

Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.

"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."

"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."

He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.

"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.

"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.

This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:

"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."

That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.

First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.

"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."

"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."

"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"

"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."

I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.

"What - all of them?" I say.

"Apparently," says Connie.

Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.

"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."

"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.

"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."

Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.