A week or so ago, I was sitting at a pavement cafe in Brighton, enjoying some fitful sunshine and a lukewarm cappuccino. Holiday people ebbed and flowed, the gulls wheeled overhead, white clouds fluffed in the sky. Suddenly, there in the throng, I spotted a quiffed-up man with the word 'ELVIS' tattoo'd on his right bicep.

Needless to say, I didn't hesitate. I jumped up, strode across to him, took his hand and said: "Mr Presley, I knew all those stories about you dying on the toilet were untrue. Would you sign this, please? It's not for me, you understand, it's for my nephew."

In the years since his last public appearance, it seems that Elvis has cultivated a strong London accent. He took the roll-up from his mouth, frowned deeply and said something that I really wouldn't have expected from the King of Rock and Roll.

Then he offered to hit me.

Same to you too, mate