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 In a world gone mad, I thought this week we’d chat about one of the few remaining things that helps me keep a grip on some semblance of sanity: collie dogs. I love collie dogs. They’re clever and attractive. They make their owners look good by sitting, staying and coming to call almost as soon as their soft brown puppy eyes are open. (As long as there’s not a nice rotting corpse that grabs their attention first).

A collie is definitely a dog to choose if you live in the countryside, especially as it gives farmers another opportunity to moan. In a relatively gentle way, they’ll tell you collies should be workers, not pets, and they’re quite right. Their collie, they’ll grunt with pride, lives in the stable. On a chain. And sleeps on shitty straw. And likes it.

But there is an element of myth to this idea of the collie as tireless worker ill-suited to a life of leisure. There are few farms these days that need a collie to work from dawn to dusk. A lot of farm collies roam restlessly or bark from the back of Land Rovers, whereas most pet collies I know are on the go from dawn to dusk  – walk, school run, play in the garden, chase the hoover, hang out the washing, school run, play with the kids, evening walk, chew by the woodburner, bed. Not a bad life for a collie. Though it can be hell for a human.

My last collie’s one set of paws outlasted three-and-a-half pairs of stout walking boots. I could walk him through a field of new-born lambs at my heel with no sign of a lead. In fact, I rarely even carried a lead. He could, however, commit the worst of sins, embarrassing me in public, without a qualm – or, more to the point, without warning.

Some years ago he, as close to a worthless cur as a collie could get in terms of lack of pedigree, was introduced to friends’ new, beautiful, expensive, pedigree golden retriever.  The collie took one sideways, sneering look, seized the retriever by the nose and refused to release the howling victim for some minutes, leaving a permanent scar.

Then there was the outing when he discovered a dead rabbit and started munching intestines while I chatted, oblivious, to friends and their children. When I finally noticed what was going on, he sat while I pulled the rabbit’s guts out of his mouth in the manner of a conjuror producing a string of brightly coloured handkerchiefs from a sleeve. The conjuror wins applause; I got horrified retching.

The collie will be a loyal, rewarding, active friend. It can be hard to locate the off-switch, but that’s the price to pay for intelligence. One expert writing in The Guardian, asked what sort of outside area was necessary for the prospective collie owner, said simply: “Wales”.

A proper collie will herd everything, including you, children, cars and neighbours. You need to give it another job very early on – and then hope for the best. Walking a collie isn’t about walking so much as gazing into the middle distance hoping for the occasional glimpse of the damned thing.

It is also possible, of course, that you’ll get a mad collie. Like my present dog. Given the fact that even placid collies are hyperactive, if you get a nutter you’re really in trouble. Though unlikely to be overweight. Mine operates on a sort of base level of craziness, driven crazier by all sorts of things: other dogs. Diesel engines. Inactivity. She drives me potty, but even she is responsive, willing, alert, intelligent and affectionate. Her madness causes all sorts of problems, some of which could be solved by putting her on a lead. That, of course, for most collie owners, is out of the question – any remaining street cred would be wrecked for ever.

It helps if you can grasp the most important skill of all for the collie owner: don’t panic. (The second most important skill is in apologising – not too fulsome or regretful, but nonetheless sincere). Look casual at all times, even in the worst extremity – and if you keep your wits about you, you’ll be able to spot the moment when the collie, as it always does, checks to see where you are and then summon it. All will be well once more. Hopefully.

And another thing

I was deeply touched to receive in the diplomatic bag from France a small gift from Jimmy Stents.

A couple of weeks ago, with the News of the World safely out of the way,  I embarked on a drug-fuelled sex orgy involving the Archbishop of Canterbury, among others, smearing me all over with warmed peanut butter.

Solicitous as ever, and presumably concerned that the Archbishop had used up available supplies, young Jimmy sent me a fresh jar. Crunchy, naturally, and smuggled through customs by A Friend who may have an affinity with arithmetic. Thank you both, and the Archbishop sends his regards.

And another very naughty thing

I see BBC4 has made a drama documentary about the fuss surrounding Life of Brian’s release in 1979. They do love their comedy drama docs, though surely they must be running out of subjects by now. What next? A gripping new film dramatising the “pivotal” moment in UK comedy history when Spike Milligan and Peter Cook failed to bump into each other in on off-licence in Hampstead in 1962?

I can see it now: Michael Sheen as Spike Milligan and Dawn French as Peter Cook portray a defining moment in the development of TV comedy, when the two pioneering comedians arrived in the liquor store at completely different times, exchanged no words at all and went their own separate ways.

Other hilarious comedy stars profiled in BBC4 films have included Kenneth Williams, Hattie Jacques and Tony Blair. Future subjects could include the meeting during which Eric Sykes turned to Hattie Jacques and declared “My, but you are fat”, and the historic gathering at an expensive Covent Garden restaurant during which TV executives identified tedious drama-documentaries about long-forgotten non-events as an easy way to justify their enormous salaries.