It is very unlikely, Possums, that you will find me in this book.

Not seldom, my reticent nature causes me to be passed over by the people who make lists. Of course, I have never underestimated the power of envy and in my varied roles of swami, counsellor, life coach and confidante of the stars I have cradled sobbing celebrities in my arms reminding them that when they don't always get the best table in Le Caprice, or a critic gives their latest mini-series an iffy review, or their wife, significant other or same sex partner leaves them for another, it all goes back to envy.

Of course, one man's celebrity is another man's non-entity and most people who call themselves celebrities are amongst the most uninteresting folk on the planet with a zero shelf life. The volume you are holding in your hands tries rather sadly to sort out who might still befamous this time next year. I believe they are putting it in a time capsule so that in trillions of years time Martians can read it and get a pretty rough idea who we acclaimed and admired today. Poor mites! They'll be jumping
on eBay or Amazon trying in vain to get a Take That CD, a book on Damien Hirst or a list of restaurants Richard Caring doesn't own. Fat chance!

My spies tell me that amongst the most obscure entries in this book is an item on my manager Barry Humphries, who has fed off my success like a leech ever since I unwisely signed a contract years ago. Since he supplied the information, I would deeply suspect its accuracy. When flash-in-the-pan celebrities write about themselves they generally fib big time and show off as well.

Over the years there's been a bit of controversy raging around my title (Dame Edna). This is another very good example of envy since most female high achievers would kill for a DBE. Jealous minxes have questioned the legality of my title so here is a wonderful opportunity to set the record straight in a respected guide to the English-speaking aristocracy. Many moons ago I returned to my homeland of Australia having conquered the West End of London with one of my life-enhancing shows. I was met at the aerodrome by the Right Honourable Gough Whitlam, the then socialist Prime Minister of Australia. Like all socialists, he was a push over as far as the Royals were concerned and then and there, as I accidentally fell to my knees due to a particularly heavy burden of duty-free, he uttered the famous words "Arise Dame Edna".

Snakes in the grass have said he had no right or authority to make me a Dame but I have a very close friend who lives in a centrally located home on The Mall, with a big backyard. I can't tell you who she is but I can divulge that she sometimes wears a crown while she sits on the throne and has the usual share of dysfunctional relations. However, she has a wonderful sense of humour which doesn't always come across on the coins, and I said to her at breakfast the other day, "they're giving me a hard time over my title, they say it's not legitimate". She looked up from her crumpet and, with a twinkle in her eye which Lucien Freud failed to catch in his portrait (amongst other things), said "Go for it, Edna. Go for it!" or words to that effect.

Tragically a damehood isn't what it was. I'm not going to name names even if I could remember them, but there are some actresses around who've been damed and couldn't hold a candle to me. They're probably in this book and you'll see them around town behaving like Lady Muck but only Americans are impressed by them, poor darlings. I've heard a whisper that Baroness Everage is in the pipeline. Watch this space.

Dame Edna Everage is a writer, talk show host and international star of stage and screen.

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