I wish I could be like actors and pretend to be bored by press junkets, but the truth is I love the attention. My job as a Hollywood writer and producer mainly involves sitting in front of a computer and shouting at my kids, so free drinks, launch parties and people telling you how great you are is the perfect antidote to a room filled with empty Monster Munch packets and that urine sample you were meant to hand in to the doctor. Writers are such terrible narcissists. We not only expect complete strangers to be fascinated by our every thought; we want them to pay for the privilege. You can imagine how much we relish poor journalists being forced to listen to us talk about ourselves for days on end.

Last week, we released a new Netflix series called The Chosen One, a six-part drama about a 12-year-old boy who discovers he’s no ordinary kid but in fact the returned Jesus Christ. It’s based on an apocalyptic comic book I wrote almost 20 years ago. The head of our Latin American division suggested we shift the setting to Mexico, where a faith-based storyline about Jesus and the Antichrist would have ten times the power of my original Chicago suburb. It was a brilliant decision and I’d love to take the credit as it has allowed us to craft something truly beautiful for a market that’s still religious. In this secular world, I fear most Americans would think this Jesus guy is a hot Spanish dancer from their favourite reality show.

The US has a reputation for being a God-fearing nation, but the sad truth is that an Exorcist or an Omen wouldn’t penetrate their culture in the same way today. I attended a dinner in the Hollywood Hills a few years ago when the subject of religion came up. Almost everyone around the table was an atheist bar a couple of Buddhists and a very polite, heavily powdered Satanist from the music industry. Everyone was respectful and seemed genuinely curious about Buddhism and even indulged this self-professed Satanist, but when I said I was not only a Catholic, but a practising one, every jaw hit the floor. I love how the traditional has become the new radical. Even the Satanist was open-mouthed.

Speaking of radicals, I’m increasingly excited by the candidacy of Robert Kennedy Jr for the Democratic party nomination. The more the media pummel him, the more I trust him, as there’s most definitely a correlation between the good guys being crucified and the worst people on Earth being regaled in the press as national treasures. His father and uncle were murdered for their dangerous ideas, but this doesn’t silence his message. The fact that the US government has refused him the Secret Service protection given to all other candidates speaks volumes.

I always like to give the family a treat when one of my stories gets adapted, and this week we took a suite at the Savoy. I’m wary of turning my daughters into entitled Hollywood brats, but the good news is that London has become such a hellhole that they’re terrified from the moment we arrive. The last time I was out I saw a guy stagger out of a pub with his nose bitten off. The kids seemed worried about being robbed by the 400-strong TikTok gangs they heard were marauding about on Oxford Street. I reassured them that, thanks to Ulez, almost nobody will be coming into London soon. Next time we’re here, I said, it will mainly be deer and fauna. My nine-year-old then confessed to having a crush on Tom Holland. I assume she means the historian and not that kid currently playing Spider-Man.

The Chosen One launched on Wednesday, which meant viewing figures started pouring in on Thursday and Netflix seemed very pleased because we didn’t just do well in Latin America, but by the weekend we had cracked the global market to be the third-biggest show in the world and the highest-ranking non-English show. The only problem was that nobody could tell me as I refuse to carry a mobile beyond the ten-quid Nokia that’s served me well since 2007 and doesn’t do emails or WhatsApp. This drives my family and friends nuts, especially as my phone is always out of charge and lying in a drawer. But if I’m out for a walk or boozing in the pub the last thing I want is someone being able to reel me back in. My wife informs me that this sweet slacker life will come to an end this coming January, when my network’s 3G gets switched off and only smartphones will be able to work under the new 5G tyranny. I’m still not getting one. I’ll ditch mobiles altogether and install a landline.