I was masturbating in my bedroom when I heard something crash

My publicist (yes, I really have one of those) is mental. She has all the social and familial histories of someone who could only ever be mental. Her father is a well-known American TV celeb, she used to date a very famous actor, a very famous writer, a not-so famous writer and, latterly, one of the directors of a very well-known US sit-com.

So she's always been close to fame, but never quite in it herself. Her upbringing has been filled with sex and intrigue and all kinds of weird shit I could never in a million years relate to.

Then she became - by default - my publicist. This somehow qualified her to become my most persistent stalker ever.

The signs were always there, right from the first meeting: "I just love the English accent - say 'vagina'".

Then the emails: "OMG, you're so funny"

Next up was her endless texting in the middle of the night: "I love you", followed by her MySpace page being covered with publicity shots of me and her listing me as her boyfriend.

I've done nothing to provoke this, beyond being desperately good looking, natch.

Honestly, I've never touched her, encouraged her in any way, even replied to any of her crazy ramblings.

Not once have I let this woman put her finger in me.

But I did go to her birthday party when this happened:

Rich daddy has paid for an expensive meal in an expensive restaurant. It's fancy and the champagne flows freely (at this juncture in my life, and on the advice of a doctor who clearly doesn't know what he's talking about, I'm not drinking, so I'm on juice). The evening goes well. A cute girl starts talking to me - I maintain a safe, but polite distance in the conversation and we limit it to tastes in music. She's a music critic and an editor at one of these fancy pants music magazines. We talk for a while and, um, that's it.

My...

I was masturbating in my bedroom when I heard something crash

My publicist (yes, I really have one of those) is mental. She has all the social and familial histories of someone who could only ever be mental. Her father is a well-known American TV celeb, she used to date a very famous actor, a very famous writer, a not-so famous writer and, latterly, one of the directors of a very well-known US sit-com.

So she's always been close to fame, but never quite in it herself. Her upbringing has been filled with sex and intrigue and all kinds of weird shit I could never in a million years relate to.

Then she became - by default - my publicist. This somehow qualified her to become my most persistent stalker ever.

The signs were always there, right from the first meeting: "I just love the English accent - say 'vagina'".

Then the emails: "OMG, you're so funny"

Next up was her endless texting in the middle of the night: "I love you", followed by her MySpace page being covered with publicity shots of me and her listing me as her boyfriend.

I've done nothing to provoke this, beyond being desperately good looking, natch.

Honestly, I've never touched her, encouraged her in any way, even replied to any of her crazy ramblings.

Not once have I let this woman put her finger in me.

But I did go to her birthday party when this happened:

Rich daddy has paid for an expensive meal in an expensive restaurant. It's fancy and the champagne flows freely (at this juncture in my life, and on the advice of a doctor who clearly doesn't know what he's talking about, I'm not drinking, so I'm on juice). The evening goes well. A cute girl starts talking to me - I maintain a safe, but polite distance in the conversation and we limit it to tastes in music. She's a music critic and an editor at one of these fancy pants music magazines. We talk for a while and, um, that's it.

My mental publicist runs out to the bathroom, sobbing hysterically.

Well, someone's obviously upset her, I say to the music critic lady, and we move on to Nick Cave's Grinderman project - neither of us particularly caring for it.

Move forward fifteen minutes later and mental publicist returns, then storms out again. Her friend comes up to me and she's pissed.

"You bastard!"

Huh? What?

"You two, you're obviously flirting - are you happy now?"

Well, no, we're talking about the disappointment of Peter Guralnick's Robert Johnson book, but, hold on a minute - what if we were?

"It's *******'s birthday! And all she can she see is her fiance flirting with her best friend!"

C-R-A-S-H!

That's right! Mental woman has told everyone at the party that we're engaged. Honestly, I've never even been alone in a room with this woman, let alone had a shenanigan with her from which even the most mental of mental people could construct such a fantasy.

I don't know what you're talking about - we're just talking and, in any case, I'm married.

From the far end of the table, which is by now silent and staring at me: "Fucking hell!"

I explain that I don't really know ******* and I'm certainly not engaged or intimately involved with her at all. At which my accuser replies "ugh! I can't believe she's done this again."

"Again"! Fucking "again"! What exactly do you mean fucking "again"!

Turns out mental woman has a history of getting engaged to men and not telling them.

This is almost a year ago now. Yesterday - after many emails in which I say "Please don't email me again, I don't want a publicist, it wasn't my choice, you scare the bejesus out of me and I'm a little bit concerned that you want to wear my skin to your next birthday party" she emails and says:

"I don't think we can be friends anymore."

Great!

Then, fully 45 minutes later, another reading "Let's meet up for drinks this Friday, we need to discuss where this is going."

Mental. Mental. Chicken oriental.

I've run away to San Francisco for the weekend. If you happen to come across a woman with matted hair, chewing her finger nails and smelling a little bit like poop, tell her to forward my appointments for May - I need to keep a window free for creating a fake identity and reconstructing my face.