I always thought I’d feel a sense of pride to have gone into a pub and “pulled”, but if I’m being honest, I’m not even sure I did the pulling. I was Johnny Failure when I left, then moments later I was singed by a searing ray of airborne Sambucca as Sarah clamped her lips to mine. Several minutes of lip grinding later it transpired she thought I was a fellow called Chad and she had been gagging for his length all day. I murmured that she had the wrong person but she couldn’t hear me over the throbbing noise of my lightly bruised testicles.

Of course I should have run a mile, only Mister Happy has not had a bluebell field walk in hand with a young lady for far too long.

Back to her place and up to her bedroom where she freed Mister Fucking Ecstatic, and then paused. It was a curious mix of lust and coy in her eyes as she gazed at my grandfather clock. In a voice that was small and wee she asked me if I had a satin slipper to clothe my butler. Downton Abbey is where my mind went, and the moment was only saved when she giggled and told me she had some in the bathroom.

Mister Happy limped into Mister Slightly Troubled inside the bathroom. I know, I know, shouldn’t judge and all that, and if people really want to live with tiles black with mould and a green sink crusted thick on the inside with congealed toothpaste, who am I to judge? I used toilet paper to open the cabinet above the sink, and there, shining like a scimitar thrust from the lake was a brand new packet of prophylactics. As I turned from the sink in triumph I felt a slight tug. Mister Gone Back to Snail in His Shell was stuck to the sink, snared by a blob of-

I don’t know the colour, because I screwed my eyes shut and used the toilet paper to free myself.

Back on the landing Mister Sieg Heil said howdy. I clothed him in a satin slipper, pawed the carpet, and charged.

Sarah not just a hard drinking and hard belching filly – you can add hard snoring to the list.

I coughed, I threw myself down next to her on the bed, nothing doing. There was a glass of water next to the bed and I was giving it some thought when somebody began to hammer on the front door. Sarah’s eye instantly popped open. She looked me up and down.

‘You’re not Chad!’

The banging from the door redoubled, and a gruff male voice called for entry.

‘Shit! That’s Chad!’

She bundled me and my togs down the stairs and with much hurried whispering told me to leg it down to the basement and out through the kitchen door.

There was no key in the door, and no time. I heard Chad calling from above he was going down for a beer…

Under the stairs went naked old me and Mister Bloody Terrified. I lurked in the dark as footsteps sounded above, praying I would be able to sneak past him when he went into the kitchen, otherwise surely it was sudden death…