Peter lives!

Crocodile bride Jordan, pushed aside the waiting paparazzi and rushed to her husband's side, eager to have his diagnosis captured on film and broadcast to the lucky lucky viewers of ITV2.

Andre's wife Katie Price visited him in hospital last night, arriving with a camera crew. She told reporters: "No comment, not unless you give me £1 million."

Not an unreasonable price to demand for sharing your pain with the nation. She's got another three memoirs to write you know. Gotta save something for the fans.

Every cloud has a silver lining, and the Andres can take some comfort in the fact that they can sell the dramatic details of Pete's fight for life to every magazine in the Western hemisphere. And, should the interest wane before they've made enough to buy themselves a glass house in Florida, complete with swamp for Jordan to lurk in and lay eggs, Pete can always cough into a few tissues, and they can auction off the very strain of the virus that almost deprived the nation of the prince of perma-tan.

In summary, for those of you who had better things to do with your early evening (though the mind struggles to imagine what these could be) Susan, the iron woman, decided that Springsteen, Karl's beloved cockerel, his symbol of new life, a fresh start and some would argue, another mid-life crisis, had to leave the building. He had lice you see, and he'd given them to Karl. His beard was a crawling mass of infestation, and Susan was more than a little concerned about what exactly Karl had been doing with Springsteen which meant he had caught lice from him.

She chose not to dwell on the subject too long, sensible woman that she is, and instead, arranged for a couple of outback types who looked like they'd shared both a womb, and a marital bed, to cart Springsteen off to an unspecified location (eg. their oven). Karl was, understandably or not, devastated, to the point where he actually suffered a montage moment, and all of his memories of the time he'd spent with Springsteen came rushing back to him in dreamy soft focus.

It was emotional. Thought-provoking. Like Hazza's clifftop plunge all over again. A truly platinum episode.

And as a sort of tribute to both the good doctor and his feathery Freudian complex, I've decided to buy a cockerel, and name it Karl.

Karl will be luxuriously housed in the cupboard under the sink. He will compose his own songs on a small vintage banjo. He will read poetry in the park, and wear a monocle. He will follow a strict macrobiotic diet. He will be celibate. One day, I will take him to Melbourne, and show him how his ancestors lived, hopefully with the good doctor, his namesake, at my side.