Last night, Takooba was born a blathering birth, in a resonant room full of wiser women and men.

He flunked the patter – trying to entertain a bunch of people who wanted to go into a reverie. Then he turned into a Boris Wooster / Boris Johnson figure, which didn’t go down so well either.

But where the links sank, the poems flew, and Takooba found himself back on stage again like when he was at school – performing like the show off he is: Hansel in Hansel and Gretel (last minute replacement!) Will in Oklahoma! and Prof. Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady.

He performed a botched sonnet, a song of defiance from ageing kerb crawlers, an Audenesque lyric about the frozen economy, and a crazed piece which, now he thinks about it, covered the transition from obsession about bodily health to Fascism post-Weimar delivered by a crazed Jewish German banker in exile in a Walden Pond-like modernist villa in the woods outside Berlin.

For that one, he actually went insane. The attached picture shows the moment his temple burst open and plopped to the floor revealing a shaft of light.

When he Blu-Tacked it back on, he sat down to listen to even more wondrous stories about high-definition television, jobbing actors in Tellytubby outfits, elderflower cordial-making and stone carving.

He went out with some friends to a stylish cellar with a cheese problem. Then assembled a retinue of eastward-heading cab riders: a business student from Marrakesh and a global corporate lawyer from India. He ended up paying exactly the same as he would if had taken it himself, which demonstrated to him why he was a poet rather than an accountant.

He hopes that the rest of his life will continue with such vim and élan and that he will meet other scintillating people on the way.

He probably won’t always write in the third person though, although he finds it annoyingly tempting to be annoying.