I have a lot less sex than people imagine. In fact, it’s people’s imagination, I think, that’s preventing me from doing so (that and my strange face, probably). In their heads, I’m sprawled across a boudoir chaise longue, explosive kegs between my legs, dining on three square meals of girls, girls, girls…

When in actual fact, I’ve an appetite like a python. Eyes bigger than my belly (already pretty big), I get all wrapped up, bite off more than I can chew and lie bloated for another year. (The resemblance doesn’t extend to my anatomy, unfortunately. I’m more like a grass snake in that respect.)

But I met this girl on Monday, and I was hoping things would follow suit like the Craig David song. But instead she said, “I bet you do alright with the ladies.”

Now, I’m no gambling man, but either way, I figure, is a losing hand. There seemed little reward in betting against her, but there was something about her assumption that seemed to lower my odds. It was as if she was saying, “You do alright. You don’t need this.”

Hang on, I thought. This isn’t like tipping a lawyer or sending Donald Trump a tenner. If an athlete does well in the Olympics give him a gold medal, surely. Applaud him at the finish line. But here I was, waiting for the starting pistol.

“Oh, I do alright,” I said, ironically. Unfortunately, the pub was loud, and my self-deprecation construed as declaration, as if I was laying my cards on the table and revealing aces.

But she’d failed to see my joker and raised her eyebrows. If there was a starting pistol, I thought, I’d shot myself in the foot.And would lie bloated for another year.