I have been sounded out for what would be the most distinguished appointment in an already long career in public service. I am to chair a committee of the great and the good — two academics, some senior social workers, a bishop well known for his contributions to Radio 4, and a handful of executives from the drinks industry.

We will look at the whole issue of alcohol abuse, juvenile drunkenness and binge drinking, as I believe it is known, and assess matters in the light of the Government’s enlightened approach to extending licensed hours, an initiative already welcomed by industry groups. It is joined-up government, as Tony likes to style it, at its best.

I pride myself that it is my chairmanship this year of the Mortlake Group that has made me suitable for this role. This is a body funded by the drinks industry that spends several thousands of pounds each year hammering home to youngsters the dangers of excessive drinking — a sum selflessly drawn from the marketing budgets of some of our largest providers of alcoholic drink.

Or perhaps it is my non-executive directorship of Ephasia, the drinks conglomerate I created out of the merger of Amalgamated Brands and Cobbleigh’s Breweries. Then there is my first-hand knowledge of the evils of addiction — I have never been shy of raising the matter of Celia’s little problem when asked to speak at industry gatherings we have attended.

The appointment will be announced later today, and I have convened the first meeting of the committee for tomorrow.

TUESDAY

“Drinks Czar”. It has a splendid ring to it in the morning papers. We meet at Ephasia’s Tottenham Court Road offices for an afternoon thrashing out the first principles. Then I suggest to the industry contingent that we convene at my club for an evening’s convivial “brainstorming”.

WEDNESDAY

An agreeable evening, as I recall, although something on the usually reliable menu at my club seems to have disagreed with me. I think I shall cancel the morning’s duties and remain at my flat. It gives me a chance to catch up on paperwork. I shall collate the main themes of yesterday’s discussions and draw together an agenda going forward.

THURSDAY

There is something uniquely dispiriting about the wilful denigration by the popular press of anyone who puts their head over the parapet for the public good. The pictures of me and my companions coming out of my club on Tuesday evening are blurred and indistinct, and surely do not merit the headline “Sir Peter Pickled”.

As to the betrayal of trust in leaking our drinks bill to the papers, this is something I will take up at once with the authorities at my club. It is, for a dozen busy and highly stressed executives, an insignificant sum and an entirely genuine entertaining expense. There is no impropriety in my having billed it to the Department of Health. Nor are comparisons with the total budget of the Mortlake Group remotely relevant. I shall speak to my solicitor.

FRIDAY

I ring my contact in Whitehall and explain that, on a matter of principle, I must resign from the committee and fight this outrageous slur on my name in the courts. My principled stand is not met with the reaction I had expected.

“Don’t bother to sue, Peter, you’ll only make yourself look sillier. And don’t bother resigning. Just be a good little quangocrat and give us a few months of hot air while we get the drinking hours extension through.

“After this week’s events, no one is going to take seriously anything your bunch of do-gooders and God-botherers have to say in any event. Something of a result for us, don’t you think?” But the invasion of my privacy, the leaking of a private document by my club . . ?

“Peter, who do you think sent them your bar bill?”

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