Ah good day.

The favour that I am given to disclose today in this, my increasingly regular column, took place back in 1981 on the set of Chariots of Fire. The recipient was none other than pouting American temptress Ruby Wax, who was having no small amount of difficulty opening a jar of gherkins , or "pickles" as she so endearingly called them.

Well, the thought of poor Ruby's lips pursed in readiness for the slick flesh of a slippery gherkin was more than even I - genteel as a prince and calm as a whisper - could abide. I knew just what she needed.

Tools of the trade:
A telling smile
Rubber gloves
A voice as soft as cashmere
Boiling water
A Panama hat
Delay Spray
Flavoured Sheaths

Leaving the opulence of my luxury trailer behind me, I set forth into the evening's diminishing light and rapped confidently on the caravan that was being shared by all of the lesser female cast.

It was Ruby who answered, and there in her long slender fingers with their painted nails she was clutching the offending jar. She could scarcely conceal her delight when she saw her gentleman caller - for here was I, Lord Andrew Lindsay to her Bunty, come to rescue her in her hour of gherkin need.

As I entered their lair of giggles and girlish secrets, silence and jaws fell alike as all heads turned to look upon me. Strolling onward toward the kitchen sink, it seemed as though I were parting the girls with my maleness just as Moses once parted the Red Sea with his staff. Coolly, I donned a pair of rubber gloves and set immediately to work.

First I poured the contents of a kettle over the top of the jar, and wasting no time I gripped the troublesome lid. The muscled contours of my manly hand were tensing visibly inside the marigolds as I began to apply an even pressure, and from the looks on the ladies' faces, it was having the desired effect. The atmosphere was electric.

It was now that I unleashed the full might of my eroticism, contorting my face as though in the throes of sexual ecstasy. What timing! What acting! Softly cooing as I felt the lid begin to move, I uttered "Oh gosh - it's coming, Ruby. I can feel it. My, my, goodness me. Any second."

Such was her elation at that moment that poor Ruby emitted an involuntary snigger of pleasure, and - as though right on cue - the jar relinquished its lid with a satisfying "POP".

The girls were beside themselves with laughter and gratitude, imploring me to stay for what they endearingly called their "girlie pickle party". But time waits for no man - not even England's finest actor- and so with a wave of my rubber-gloved hand I dismissed myself, packed up my things and strolled confidently away.

Once again of course the pleasure was all mine.

Pip-pip,

N.H.