The reverend doctor George Lennan is an unlikely hero, modest, good looking and affable, with a twinkle in his eye and a truly gigantic cock.

When I met him in his theological retreat in the south of France he welcomed me with a cold beer and a sly grin. After some rather touchingly flirtatious remarks about my tits, we settled down on the terrace with a view over the Camargue where white horses charged about in the sunshine, vying in number with black bulls bred up for slaughter in the nearby Arles bullring.

I start with a question about his choice of home. He sits back with a debonair, thoughtful expression and tries to look up my skirt.
"I'd always wanted to live in France. I suppose it goes back to my childhood where I used to sit next to Tracey Henderson in French. Phwoaar" his beautiful green eyes crinkle "she had the biggest knockers in the class so in a way it was predestined"
Did you always see yourself as a leader of men?" I ask him, sweating slighty, and I hope, noticeably.
"Well yes... when I received the calling from Nowhere to spread the word that absolutely nothing was going on, I realised that here, at last, was my chance to make a lot of money and cop a feel or two. I must have been, what? Thirteen?"
"Isn't thirteen rather young to be copping a feel?"


Me with George Lennan just before I got shagged off him
"Well, if you'd of sat next to tracey henderson you'd of developed early too. Something to do with pheremone triggers I suppose" I understand him perfectly and think I would like to 'cop a feel' of tracey myself.

The reverend pulls his chair up closer and places a warm, sturdy yet surprisingly gentle hand on my inner thigh "Fancy a shag?" he whispers.
Damn right I do. Phwoaar... as the reverend would so charmingly have put it.

Asparta Meninges is on maternity leave. Crenellata Papilloma is the financial editor of Razzle. And a vicar.