Last night, smothering all health and safety concerns under an asbestos blanket, I decided to try my hand at cooking a dish from one of Nigella Lawson's recipe books. It was a qualified success in that I didn't set fire to the kitchen and, being the type of person who doesn't like to waste anything, even if it does look and taste like the contents of Nellie the Elephant's potty, I ate as much as I could.

Afterwards, I settled down with a glass of port and a chocolate cigar and turned my thoughts to an issue that for some strange reason seemed suddenly apposite; my last will and testament.

Inheritance is a big issue right now, largely as a result of the tragic news that the global humanitarian, Paris Hilton, will not be receiving the $100m she was expecting from her soon-to-be dead 92-year-old grandfather. Apparently, the old man has come to the frankly outrageous view that she is an air-headed flibbertigibbet (or whatever the polite term is for 21st-century slapper) and that his fortune should go somewhere entirely less deserving, like charity.

My heart bleeds. Hopefully, when the day comes and the old man's will is published, thereby denying Paris that which she has worked so hard to earn, the American courts will find a way to overturn this terrible injustice. But until that day comes I think we should intrude no further into the life of the intensely private Ms Hilton other than to send her this heartfelt message - ha, bloody ha.

Meanwhile, back to my own will and testament. Those who have an intimate knowledge of my paperwork filing system (throw it in a drawer and we'll sort it out later) will not be surprised to know that, as things stand, I don't have such a thing. My long-suffering consigliere, Piedro di Lawsange, tells me this is a shocking oversight. "This is a shocking oversight,'' he says. "How can you expect me to live in the style to which Louis XIV became accustomed when you won't ask me to compile your last will and testament and then charge you an enormous sum of money for the privilege?"

I know he is absolutely right but somewhere deep inside my psyche there is a little voice that asks: "How did I end up with the only lawyer in Glasgow who goes to work wearing a fur-lined cape and a pre-Raphaelite wig? And why would any sane person pay for advice from such a person?" Actually, the voice doesn't say that. It says my lawyer is a very sensible person but what he doesn't realise is that the features editor is usually asleep by this stage of the column, which means that instead of finishing off with a forensic examination of the tax implications of death I can instead finish by publishing my last will and testament without having to incur the cost of a lawyer.

So it is without any further ado that I, Lawrence Horatio Pinky Algernon Donegan, being of sound mind and body, albeit a slightly podgy body, do hereby declare that in the unlikely event of my death I do wish that I would just get on with the rest of this column before the features editor wakes up and puts a stop to this nonsense: To my beloved son Niall, I leave my collection of three million, four hundred and seventy-five thousand, three hundred and eleven golf clubs, along with my leather-bound volume of unpaid credit card bills.

To my beloved secret girlfriend who nobody knew about - not even her - Kate Moss, I leave a signed photograph of me so that she will learn every day that she could have done a lot better than Pete Doherty if only she had seen the error of her ways and realised that middle-aged, balding blokes have a lot more to offer than beat poets with smelly armpits and bad skin.

To my actual girlfriend, Margaret Archibald Shiels, I leave my love and affection and instructions please to stop spending Niall's child allowance money on crocodile-skin handbags.

To my mother, I leave a confession that, yes, it was me who burned a hole in her settee when she went to work in the summer of 1978, leaving me in charge of the house.

To the nation, I leave a legacy of ground-breaking Saturday columns. You never know, there might be a national shortage of firewood some day.

Finally, and most importantly, I would like to leave to my dear friend and role model, Paris Hilton, the leftovers from the meal I cooked last night. God knows, she deserves them.