The day began to turn peculiar when I found a well known sports commentator waterskiing in my muesli. Naturally I told him, in no uncertain terms, to vacate my breakfast bowl that instant.

"Get out of my cereal you old Etonion bastard," I shouted, "who do you think you are?"

"Well I'm hardly Dickie bloody Davies, am I?" he enquired rhetorically, deftly circumnavigating a raisin. If there was one thing I wasn't in the mood for it was a sarcy third division celebrity skimming across my Swiss breakfast. There was a knock. I went to the door in my pyjamas and yes, I have got a door in my pyjamas before you ask, fathead. It was a thoroughly convincing postmanogram who handed me a very authentic looking parcel. I recognised the hand immediately. That 1983 Swatch, the 'Just Seventeen' ring. It was Deevoy's hand. He had cut off his hand and posted it to me. Not even a recorded delivery. He was always doing it. The hand was clutching a note. Lilac Basildon Bond as ever. I prised the note from the cold fingers noting as I did the atrocious state of the nails. It read.

My Dearest Serge,
Please find enclosed an essential piece of my anatomy. I hope it comes in handy. Just my little joke. As you have probably gathered from the atrocious state of the nails, Pascal my live-in lover and manicurist has bogged off with another bloke. This leaves me no option but to end the rancid half-aubergine that is my life. I am topping myself bit by bit purely for its novelty value. I fear it would be dreadfully inconsiderate, trite even, to hurl myself beneath a passing group of Hari Krishnas. I bequeath to you, my friend, my life's work: Studio Diary. With the Diary also comes the responsibility of making regular entries. I am sure you are more than capable of executing this matter in hand — if you'll excuse the pun.

Just a few words of advice and a couple of pointers. If you could give Eden a plug it would be nice. They recently invited me to a rather splendid brunch where the bubbly was liberally sprayed. If you mention that they've had Scritti Politti and Red Box in of late that should keep them happy. Please refrain from saying anything about Billy Bremner in association with alcohol. It apparently upsets the 'seasoned virtuoso'. Then, of course, there's Chipping Norton who many moons ago got in touch and begged never to be included in the scurrilous column. Fortunately the thought had never entered our minds. Amazon are always worth a couple of inches as they are always very forthcoming with a mug of Horlicks and a warm bed if you get stuck in Liverpool. You could say something like, 'burgeoning scouse establishment about to go SSL' because they probably are. Whilst on this subject, Serge, never let facts get in the way of a good story. Everybody knows that Air isn't an eight-track demo studio in Wapping but it makes a good story. Trident is always ideal for news. It's right in the middle of Soho, there's a constant gaggle of Marc Almond groupies outside the door and Flood works there. Flood, dear Flood has been a constant source of unashamed amusement in the Diary for many years and no doubt will be for many to come.

Solid Bond is always well worth a namecheck but do be careful not to end up in The Style Council. If 'spokesman for a generation' Paul Weller thinks you are under 16 you could be pressganged before you can say 'Internationalism'.

Foreign studios to avoid include Sounds Uninteresting which is carved in the foot of a mountain in Bangor. Ken Dibble, Britain's leading acoustic consultant, has pronounced the place a monument to dull sounds. "You can produce the most interesting sounding music," he once gibbered to me, "and it will come out sounding completely boring."

Then, of course, Smug Studios in Pigalle where the engineers are so arrogant they will only record vocals sung with a Jacques Brel accent. Also worth an occasional visit is Enormous Sprout in Brussels. The 24 track has been designed inside a gargantuan sprout which gives a very strong vegetable sound to the drum tracks.

The Fat Bastard Complex in Munich is ever worthy of a flying visit. Its main point of interest is that the recording areas are made entirely of cheese and all the house engineers are deaf badgers. Whilst in the area you should take a quick look at Throbbing Dome 16 in Zagreb. It is a little known fact that this small Yugoslav studio has achieved perfect acoustics by putting Yeoman's mashed potato in recording artists' pockets.

But I'm sure you will discover these facts for yourself, dear Serge. I leave you now to perpetuate this noble tradition. My thoughts are with you and my trousers are around my ankles.