There's a magazine called The Pink Paper. I'm not sure what the general opinion of it is, as a publication. Most gay magazines are club listings smattered with pictures of big cocks - so if you're waiting for your mate in the pub, it gives you time to make yourself feel aroused and inadequate, and see what you could be doing if you weren't waiting for your bloody mate.

Its credibility isn't really that important, though. People read it, because it's there and it's free, and there might be cocks in it. Even though there isn't in the Pink Paper. And on this week, you open the front page to see this article on page three.

Apparently, I'm a gay prankster. Apparently, this is all getting gloriously out of hand.

I asked the guy who wrote the article, and they did actually phone the Sausage Appreciation Society. Which does actually exist. When they asked him advice on which sausages to throw, I think he just wanted to get off the phone.

It's at this stage that I should apologise to Wendy, the manager of the Retro Bar. She had no part in choosing the location of the meeting, and was politically opposed to our folly. She was dragged unwillingly into this stupidity, and for that, I can only say 'please don't bar me'.