Today I should like to recollect a rapturous day at the races. I was at Ascot in the summer of 1996, and whom should I bump into but frigid hairy-faced horse-lover Helena Bonham Carter, all down in the mouth about a ham sandwich she had just dropped on the ground.

Well – what a vision of hairiness poor Helena was, all squat, pouting and hungry for meat. It was far more than even I, humble as a pup and shy as a kitten, could hope to resist. I knew just what she needed.

Tools of the trade:
A fresh baguette
Ham
Poise and grace
A straw boater
Some butter
Lettuce
Baby oil

Like a stallion from the gate I dived into my virile blue coolbox and retrieved the things I would need. Spreading my cream-coloured cashmere blanket on the hay-strewn and muddied ground, I knelt, erect and with arched back, the loaf perpendicular to my ample groin.

My movements smooth and continuous I started to spread the butter like a man possessed – from root to tip and back again, up and down four, five, maybe six times, pausing only to remove an oily drip that had melted at the tip, which I then brought to my lips seductively, to taste.

As I gently inserted thick layers of ham and glistening wet lettuce my baguette was visibly starting to swell – growing bigger and juicier before Helena’s very eyes as I dressed it, gave it a squeeze and gripped it firmly, proffering it in her direction.

Well I’m afraid, dear readers, Helena couldn’t have been any less interested in my French stick. The pleasure, as it turned out, was all in my head.

Your health, then.

N.H.