You're probably wondering...

In at least two previous posts I have mentioned 'My Big Fat Greek Bedding'. This was the moment I decided to start writing a blog because it was so silly, so random, yet completely TRUE that I HAD to let the world know about.

It started off as a rogue tale in an email chain between me, Fail, Kinky Steve and the Nicks. But since then has been forwarded around my friends.

So, for those of you who haven't read, seen or heard it before... may I proudly present...

My Big Fat Greek Bedding...

Me and Kinky Steve are currently signed up to the online dating forum known as 'mysinglefriend'. By and large it is filled with eligible and good-looking bachelors and bachelorettes looking to find people for dating, kissing and eventually, heavy petting.

It's 5:30pm last night and I am winding down for the day. I get an email saying that someone has sent me a message on the site, so I go and have a look. It's a girl called 'Mary' and the message simply reads "Mmmm.... you look good enough to f*ck. Text me on ____ and let's hook up".

Now being the self-effacing, demure single chap with incredibly high levels of woman-hood, I do what we would all do in this situation and TEXT HER IMMEDIATELY. She texts back, seems to be genuine, and I make my way (sprint like I have never sprinted before) and get to this pub in Camden. I text her, alerting her to my whereabouts and eventually a woman, SIMILAR TO THE GIRL IN THE PHOTO ONLY IN THE SENSE THAT SHE HAS A HEAD comes over and introduces herself as Mary. She is Greek. Still, in for a penny in for a pound. I get Kinky Steve ready on 'emergency text duty' in case of true disaster.

So, I ask her what she would like to drink and she asks for "the finest English Ale!" so there I am, in a cramped bar in Camden, ordering a San Miguel for me, and a Bombardier for the hairy, plate-smashing wife. Before I finish my order, she leans over and tells the bar-man not to worry and then tells me we should go straight back to her place. So, I do what any good man would do here and usher her out the door and in the direction of a nearby bus stop.

We get on the most crowded bus ever and we are squeezed in close. She is giving me a rub down through my jeans and then asks me what my job is.

I wish I was lying and that this was bullshit, but I panicked. I completely panicked. I took into account the fact that I had known this woman for 7 minutes and that she currently had my dick in her hand, along with my being on a bus heading God only knows where (probably to 'Hostel') so I tell her I am a "Private Investigator... you know, a detective. Nothing too heavy, mainly financial stuff, but yeah... that's me". I am chuckling at my desk just thinking about it. Yeah, that'll protect you when you're chloroformed up to the eyeballs and hung upside down on a Saltire with a tennis ball strapped in your mouth and her wearing your bollocks as earrings. Your ability to track down people in default of commercial debts.

So, we get to her place in Archway and before we're through the door, she appears to have fallen on her knees and has taken the old chap out. 15 minutes of making the beast with two backs with Zorba later, and I have absolutely no desire to be there. I get up, into the bathroom and see the tiniest wee friction mark on my old fella. That's my get-out, my excuse, my reason to escape, so I go back into the bedroom, I tell her I'm out of whack for the rest of the evening and incredibly sore, so need to tootle off home. At that point my phone goes - it's my dad - and she asks who it is. I instinctively say "It's my dad... err... boss... err, I work for the family business".

So, she now thinks I come from a dynasty of detectives and is probably trawling through facebook right now looking for "Mr. D___ Pinkerton".

I make my further excuses, leave and then walk all the way from Archway to Holloway as a punishment, regaling the story to Kinky Steve and one of the Nicks.

I then got home, watched the last hour of the footy and drafted an email in my head to ITV asking them to refund me £5 for missing the winning goal.