Thursday March 15 - All The President's Gin

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been two months, 14 days and 17 hours since my last drink.

I'm gagging for a pint and it's all the President of Ghana's fault.

There's a sentence I never thought I'd write.

What happened was this. I woke up, full of the joys of spring, only to have my mood darkened when I checked in with the newsdesk and was told to arrange an interview with John Kufuor, the President of Ghana, who is currently on a state visit to the UK.

Now, I have nothing against John Kufuor in himself. I'm sure he's a smashing fella, who thoroughly deserves his nickname of "the gentle giant" (a moniker usually reserved for large, friendly, slightly retarded people, often from East Anglia, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt).

However, from years of bitter experience, I know that reporting on high-profile visits by royalty and heads of state is invariably a painful and fruitless experience.

First, you have to deal with legions of jumped-up government press officers, who strut around with their official clipboards and shoulder bags like the overgrown milk monitors they are.

Then you have the local hosts and officials - decent enough folk who are sent into a temporary frenzy by the smell of fresh paint and the promise of a fancy biscuit.

Then you have the groupies. That assorted rag bag of Royal-watchers, party loyalists, loonies, pensioners and the unemployable, who turn out to wave flags, shake hands (with people who will happily exploit such loyalty and shaft them at every opportunity) and generally get in my way.

Then, worst of all, you have to cope with the pure futility of the exercise. Such hassle would not be so bad if these events ever produced a decent story. But they don't. The dignitaries invariably turn up, mouth platitudes, unveil a plaque, then bugger off. Who wants to read about that - particularly when it is competition with riveting news stories like what Liz Hurley wore last night, or another picture of Britney Spears' beaver?

But today was different, they told me. John Kufuor's people had been in touch, they said. He was very keen to speak to us, apparently, and was willing to give a one-to-one interview.

Yeah, right.

A dozen phone calls, several wasted trips, one rain-soaked suit and four hours later, I watched with resignation as the Gentle Giant was whisked away in a ministerial Rolls Royce, without so much as a sideways glance at the chump from Her Majesty's Press.

I had been duped by wily Ghanaians. Lured to their crappy photo-call and bun-fight on the promise of an interview that was clearly never going to happen.

So, John Kufuor, if you're reading, I hope you're happy. You may well have created one of the strongest democracies in Africa, and overseen the first peaceful transition of power since independence from Britain in 1957, but you've very nearly driven this Social Alcoholic to drink.

Hang your head in shame, Sir.

Off to the pub now, for the third night in a row. Last night I was in Manchester, saying hello to a former colleague who left to work in LA and is back in Blighty for a week. The night before, I was in the Coffee House with Gary, Gregg and Cardy. Tonight it'll be the Penny Lane Wine Bar. Again.

See, I told you I go to the pub a lot.