Pete Doherty assaulted me with a langoustine

Ever since I've come off the "reality" show that I was kept prisoner on for six weeks I've found it very difficult to adapt to normal life. The show, Deadline, turned me into a hard-nosed paparazzo and, once you've tasted of the poison, it's almost impossible to kick the habit.

Take yesterday, for example. It should have been a lovely night out at my local pub in the deepest, darkest Cotswolds. Sadly, it was far from it. The problem is that the Cotswolds are crammed with the very people that I spent many a long night stalking up in the Big Smoke. Down here, it's like shooting fish in a barrel.

Weirdly, I actually have shot fish in a barrel. It was for my first aborted programme when I moved to the BBC. It was to be called "100 Things To Do Before You Die". Every one of them was going to be totally pointless. I dimly remember that we had ideas like "lock myself in a fridge to see if the light really does go out". It would have been great but, unfortunately, some unscrupulous TV types on another channel stole the idea and made a similar programme before me. That's TV though - a snake pit where even snakes are often too scared to roam.

Anyway, we set up a barrel in a field, filled it with water and put some fish in it. I then stood on a stepladder and fired a shotgun into it. I got soaked, the fish survived - unlike my career at the BBC. Such is life. Actually, looking back on it, maybe it was a blessing in disguise that we never made the show? But I digress.

Back in my local pub, my wife Stacey and I sat down for an intimate little supper a deux. All was going swimmingly until the door opened and in strode two of our local "A Listers"- Kate Moss and the troubled entity that is Pete Doherty.

I couldn't help myself. Within seconds, like a well-oiled machine I'd manoeuvred Stacey a full 180 degrees round the table so that I could get the best "snapping" position possible. Before they'd ordered their first double brandy I'd got a glorious "set" that would have won me the competition had it not finished some four weeks ago. This didn't stop me. Stacey was getting a bit embarrassed as I started to set up a long lens and tripod. It's true that they were only on the next-door table but I wanted to make sure that I didn't miss a trick.

Doherty spotted me and went mental. He picked up two of the langoustines that he had been tucking into and physically assaulted me with them. He'd clearly used this particular type of shellfish as an offensive weapon before. He really knew how to handle them and Stacey and I were forced to beat a hasty retreat from the establishment.

What was particularly cool was that, as the attack unfolded, Doherty was mumbling some free-form poetry that he was clearly making up on the spot. He really is very talented. I wish I could remember all of it. It could be worth quite a packet. It was something along the lines of:

"Langoustine, Langoustine, You came to me in a dream, How beautiful you seem, Especially when I use you as a battering machine."

He's a very talented young man - and I don't care who knows it.

I awoke the next morning in severe pain and with no idea of what I could actually do with my photos. So I went to see my local GP. He's quite a "doctor to the stars" and it was no surprise to see Rory Bremner leaving as I arrived. I said hello but Rory just nodded and indicated that he'd lost his voice. Such a shame.

The doctor asked me what the problem was. I told him that Pete Doherty had attacked me with a pair of langoustines. He sighed. It was clearly not the first time that this kind of thing had happened. He went to his cupboard and produced a huge pair of pliers. It took him about 20 minutes to remove one of them from my nether regions. I must admit that it made me think hard about my life. I must leave my work behind me when I'm home. I've just got to stop being so shellfish.

Further reading 'Pete Doherty: Last of the Rock Romantics' by Alex Hannaford, Ebury Press

Copyright 2007 Independent Newspapers UK Limited. All rights owned or operated by The Independent.
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.