I am haunted. Haunted by Dick. He comes to me in my sleep – denim jacket, jeans, Doc Martens, and then platform shoes, flowery dress, feather boa, with dog collar, with tortoiseshell, wire-rimmed, and aviator glasses, handbag, bow tie, and wig. He comes to me at night from deep in the closet, runs his hands over my hair, my ears, pinches my nose, I open my mouth and in he sweeps, present, presence, and he speaks Enochian. This is what he says:

“Summoned by Doctor Dee from the nearby church of St Mary Magdalene, my spirit wanders the Thames riverbank, my soul – buffeted with rain and wind, baffled by passing juggernauts – hankers for rest, for sleep, for oblivion. I don't just envy the confidence that other comics seem to have, I resent it. I hate them for it, just like my dad did. If there's such a thing as a chip off the old block, it's on my shoulder and that lickspittle Dee, that quack, that magician and his crying, made me live again, made the very atoms of my body whole once more. I cannot rest: from vicar to bovver boy to limp-wristed queen, my body undergoes metamorphosis. I see the looks on the faces of the schoolchildren as I shimmer between characters – I cannot enter the Jolly Gardeners without transforming from sporting gent to traffic warden to ton-up boy. Buying a corned-beef pasty from Greggs, I am at once Mandy, and Hettie, and Clarence.

Dr Dee has cursed me, ripped me from the second terrace of purgatory where I witnessed those so-called comics in the depths of hell. In the first circle, Minos wrapping his giant tale around Eric Morecambe’s spindly legs. In the second, Francesca da Rimini tonguing Leslie Crowther. The third, Les Dawson eating scones, rare roast beef, and mange touts. In the fourth circle, Bruce Forsyth stroking a cabinet freezer. In the fifth, Max Bygraves swimming in the fetid waters of the Styx. Tommy Cooper’s red fez in flames in the sixth. While tussling with the minotaur in the seventh circle of hell, Tommy Trinder and Arthur Askey flail away with mace and knobkerrie. In the eighth – in the Malebolge itself – Ken Dodd and his abacus of eyeballs. And finally, in the ninth, near Satan’s grasp, under the hem of the giants’ robes, Norman Wisdom crying himself to sleep. The bastards.

Now, I am cast out, to walk the earth for eternity, forever mutating, morphing, in some crass mockery of the three faces of Eve, a veritable Sybil, and I will come and haunt your homes, I will block my ears when you laugh, hide my eyes when you titter, cover my mouth when you smile. The Virgin Queen’s astrologer – that familiar of speculum and shew stone – drew out of the dust my scream, made visible and physical my torment. And now, it is your turn to tremble. Fear me.”

And then he’s out and my mouth tastes of ash and doughnuts, my knees knock, my teeth chatter, and as the door to my closet closes, I hear “Ooh, author of Monas Hieroglyphica, you are awful.” And I toss and turn, thinking of Dick. Thinking. Just thinking.