In a private villa at Elounda, as part of this healing process, I commission a foam party. My shark picture is projected on to the walls and I arrange for a special Kyriakos cocktail with blue Curaçao and shark fin ice cubes. There is a six-foot ice-luge in the shape of a nude male diver, suitably heroic but still recognisably me, reaching down like God in Michelangelo’s painting to bless the shark. Branded vodka is poured into the back of the statue’s scuba tank and flows freely from his partly engorged penis. I also fly in a group of adventurous art students from Camberwell and pay them to paint the same tableau across the naked abdomens of five Crazy Horse girls. At midnight, two artists and a dancer persuade me to take off my clothes—thank God I’ve been on a fitness jag so my body is muscular beneath a layer of fat, and I can tell myself I look titanic rather than obese—and they shave me from neck to ankle right there on the leather sofa and wash me in Cristal. At which point the whole night really kicks off, and it’s a carnage of oral sex and orifices and everyone has a great time. I personally get laid on top of the ice luge, roaring and thrusting as my balls brush the melting ice and my arsehole gets very cold, but my partner is totally into it. She’s screaming and yessing as if she’s never had an orgasm before, and that makes me feel pretty fantastic.