IT has come to my attention that some of you are labouring under the illusion that I actually write this column myself, that I sit down once a week and write 700 or so words on a topic that has just popped into my head as if by magic. I mean really, this is the 21st century you know. I am a media mover and shaker of the new Millennium and I'm far too busy moving and shaking to actually write a column.

Instead I dictate potential topic headings such as Dads: Are they allergic to stinky nappies or what?; Cardigans: A beginners' guide; and Richard Madeley: Why? to my faithful assistant Mavis 'Shortie' Pitman who then scurries off as fast as her jack- boots will carry her along the gleaming glass and chrome corridors of my dockland office block to where my team of writers await that day's missives.

There are usually 15 highly-trained wordsmiths on call at any one time, give or take one or two who have left to seek psychiatric help after a particularly vicious verbal mauling from Shortie or who have been head-hunted by Bryan Marlowe.

My team, as I like to call them even though I haven't actually met any of them and have no intention of doing so, are generally quite happy... I think.

They are provided with regular and gen-erous supplies of cheap cigarettes and even cheaper coffee (or, as I believe this particular brand is called, I can't believe you can't believe it's not real coffee you bozo), and they are given weekly updates on the world outside their cell, sorry office, via a special compilation tape of GMTV's top stories and the finest moments of banter and blarney between Fiona 'Fluff' Phillips and Eammon 'Mobile' Holmes.

Anyway, I seem to have strayed some-what from my point here. Where was I Ms Pitman? Ah yes.

When the missives and the wordsmiths collide, an explosion of creativity occurs and the molten jewels that fall back to earth when the mushroom cloud clears are brought to me in my penthouse suite for inspection. I then stir from my chaise longue just long enough to reject 90 per cent of the work before sending the re-maining ten per cent back to be rewritten under the ever-watchful eye and ever-flexing muscles of Shortie.

It is only after many hours, perhaps even days, of such rewrites that the finished article is ready to be presented to you, my public. And there you were thinking that I just plonked myself down in front of my computer for a couple of hours to rattle this stuff off. It takes days of blood, sweat and tears to create these columns. I'm just happy that none of it is mine.

And it is not just me you know. I have it on very good authority that Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen doesn't actually know how to hang a roll of wallpaper, never mind decorate a room in two days while wearing a cerise velvet suit and a sardonic smile.

The same little bird happened to mention that Jeffrey Archer has also been known to employ others to 'research' his books. Well, I can't say I'm surprised, his finely-crafted works of literary genius just have to be the products of many, many great minds.

I was surprised, however, to read this week that artist terrible (that's 'terrible' with an accent, although that is open to debate) Tracey Emin has a small army of assistants and fabricators who do most of her hammering, nailing and scrawling for her. So her new solo show at White Cube2 in London, with its life-size rotting helter-skelter and blankets sewn with badly spelled fragments of conversation, is not really a solo show at all, it's a team effort.

Maybe next time, and I'm offering this advice as president of Jo Inc remember, she should consider shipping in a few assistants and fabricators who can draw a bit, perhaps even paint a picture. I'd be happy for her to take her pick from my cast-off staff. They might not meet the high standards I set for my creative underlings, but they are probably quite proficient at colouring in.

Oh, and by the way, that's not me smiling inanely at the top of this column, that's Shortie.