On a roll fresh from my Grand National winning streak, I went oot on the razzle-dazzle early this evening. Bearing in mind that I am fast approaching middle age, and just getting in and out of my silver cloud Roller causes hip pain worthy of Thora Hird (is she dead yet?) I took dinner at the Grove. Only posh people take things. Dinner, tea, toilet rolls and biros from waiters. Ordinary people steal things. Do keep up Algernon!

The Grove is an irritatingly obsequious chateaux set in the golfing grounds of a Jolly Green Giant. Christ, it even has its own troll-bridge and traffic light, stable block, spa palace, and fresh, folded towels lurking in every corridor. It was in this deeply pretentious set-up I sampled my first air-dried caper!

AIR-DRIED-CAPER. What does this mean? A man, with a hand-drier blowing hot air on a shrivelled, olive coloured pea? This descriptive hyperbole just has to stop. Next we'll be buying war torn testicles from abysinnian goats.

I shan't let Marks and Spencers know about this new food fetish. What can they say in that throaty, pulsating, languid voice about an air dried caper vaguely suggestive of a blow job!