The fact that George Michael has been ignoring me for ages leads me to make the logical deduction that he must be mentally unwell. "We need to handle this sensitively," I informed my partner, David Furnish. "That means you're going on 5 Live to tell millions of people how pained we are. Pained for George."
"Can't you do it?" sighed David.
"This is your job!" I screamed caringly. "I have stuff to buy. Get out there and tell the world he's lost it."
While he was at it, I rang Bono. "George needs help," I explained. "Can you organise a global concert in aid of sorting his head out?"
"What about one of my cool product initiatives?" he replied. "You know, every time someone buys a Motorola phone, a percentage of the cost goes to saving George Michael."
"Look, I've already lost interest in this conversation," I said gratefully. "Just sort it."
The second the help had put the phone down for me, I received a text from George.
"Keep your hairplugs on, Lady John," it read. "In case you didn't notice – though, frankly, what else do you have to do on Saturday nights bar sit on the sofa nursing a non-alcoholic lager? – I performed my new single on the X Factor finale, the highest rating show of the year. I am thin (sorry, dear), I am happy and at some point you are going to have to realise that not wanting to see you isn't a sign of mental disintegration."
Well, if that isn't a cry for help, then I don't know what is.