A Hollywood Christmess story

Pub crawls, bonhomie and midnight Mass do not transfer to sunny LA, says Robbie Williams’ party friend, Corkman Mark Hayes

Is that Slash? Hmm. Is he looking at me? Hmm. Not sure. Is it him? Is he real? Am I drunk? What’s going on? Hmm. I’m going back for a kip.

Next morn. Stephen’s Day. Boxing Day? Not sure what they call it here in L.A. Eyes open. I’m on a couch at Robbie Williams’ house. Awake. Alone. Alive. Stiff back. Slept awkwardly. No sign of Slash. No sign of anyone. All left? Or upstairs? Sleeping. Sensible folk. Unlike me, and my dry mouth. Tastes like glue. And so this is Christmas.