Just think of the gin and fags you could buy for that amount. Think of all the liposuction. Yet he looks on the verge of tears, telling reporters he just wanted a quiet life, and just was glad of a bit extra money to spend on wood for his cabinet-making hobby.

Of course the guy was probably confused as hell. One minute he's having The Mirror thrust into his hands by the inanely grinning Lenny Lottery from The Mirror. Next second it was torn out and The Sun handed over by his immensely slappable equivalent from The Sun, Sir Len Lottery, and his busty sidekick Lady Lucinda Lottery. Everyone else was chucking champagne in his general direction as he feebly insisted he was a teetotaller.

But couldn't the poor baa lamb have raised a little smile? After all he admits he's never had a shag in his life, but I suspect it will be more than the fickle finger of fate that will be working in his favour from now on.

Should it ever be me - first on the shopping list would be a new man. No point, like Mr David Ashcroft of worrying about some money grabbing-sort coming forward, Hell you can afford it.

I'm searching to serve myself rather than my country of course. Ah, the glamour. I've seen the Bond films. All that shagging of Russian spies in foreign climes. All those men who know the worth of a fine Martini. Knowing damn well the fella's got a pistol in his pocket and he's pleased to see me. Men whose idea of commitment is if you don't shoot them the next morning.

Knowing that there will now be legions of men no longer interested in finding their own Pussy Galore, I've confined the CV to the wastebin.

Whilst there's something not quite ringing true about the thought of flabby-bottomed Brits with a designer piece of tooth floss between their cheeks, this sort of thing will at least raise a smile from the female population.

After years of adopting the missionary position post-haste to stop the seismic trembling in the bottom department we finally get to inflict the same misery on the men. They have been able to waft around their beer bellies in ample-sized boxer shorts and swimming trunks for years.

Instead the woolly-headed Mrs Enfield seriously believes she can really go through the equivalent of shitting a football whilst fornicating with the Eiffel Tower - with nothing stronger than a massage and a bit of yoga.

Sweetie. Get a grip. This is the one time in your life you get to yell every blasphemy under the sun, scream out constantly for free drugs which are then instantly administered, and have your entire family looking indulgently on telling you how clever you are.

According to The Sun he spent a jolly pleasant afternoon on the Eton day out surrounding by fawning half dressed teenagers billing and cooing in his ear. One slight note of alarm though in this pleasant picture. Wills, we learn is becoming known as "the Richard Gere of Eton."