(Of course, if any of you ladies on WOL would like to widen my fallibilities....)

It takes many forms, I suppose.  Adultery.  You’re probably expecting a ‘Tales-of-my-Prick’ post.  Unfortunately, to date, I have not been able to introduce it to the prickly pear.

No.  My adultery involves unfaithfulness of a different kind.  I have, for instance, been conducting an extra-marital love affair with Tottenham Hotspur Football Club for over 55 years; largely unrequited I have to add as, as a Mistress, she has served me a mix of frustrating denial and disappointment equally as painful as Lover’s Balls.

But it is a love like glue.  You can separate or get divorced from your partner but your team will never let go of you.  Many times Our Gert has accused me of thinking ‘more of that bloody football team’ than I do of her.  On these occasions I have the good sense to say nothing but simply stare blankly and wonder silently, ‘So what’s your point?’

But this overt adultery contrasts starkly with the sneaky, underhand unfaithfulness I enjoy with the biscuit tin.  And I am not the sort of man who would settle for a quick feel in this regard. A single biscuit always leads to fourth base as the whole packet goes in an orgy of self-fulfillment.

And guilt?  Not really.  More like secrecy and manipulation.  I wouldn’t buy a packet of Oreos at the petrol station while I was filling up on the card, for instance.  Evidence, see?  Petrol on the card, biscuits with cash.

And I’ve often thought that if ever I came home with semen stains on the front of my trousers she’d simply ask, ‘What have you been eating?’