You've been to Bond Street. I know I have, which is where I am right now.
There's a poster on the wall at the interchange with the Jubilee and Central Lines and in the poster there is a guy who I recognise.
And he's standing next to another guy who I know. And his friend is someone who looks familiar too...
Oh, this is ridiculous.
Once again D&G have lined up some Italian sportsmen to pose in their underwear and the terribly embarrassing thing is, I've slept with them all*.
* = all except for one. Which actually makes it four out of five.
D&G did this a few months ago with some rugby players and I was a little ashamed to admit to you that I too had banged them all like a series of stable doors in a north wind. The intimate details are here.
So, as it seems is now tradition and because I know you're a pervy bastard, here are all the sordid details. Again.
First up and sadly it's number 1.
He's 24 years old, his real name is Marcello Minchia and I say sadly because we never actually did anything.
In the cab on the way back to his he started rattling off how much he loved his toys. Immediate turn-off.
And he just didn't stop.
It was only when he started to explain how much he loves it when someone takes his favourite black toy, the "Man-Mountain Black Double Fist O'Doom" that I was like 'dude, you clearly don't need me.'
I got out the cab and walked home.
I don't know about you but waving my wand about in a wizard's sleeve is not my idea of Saturday night fantastic.
Oh yes. Number two, Cassius Cazzone or "The Suck from Sicily".
He's about 6'4 and does this amazing thing where, while standing up, he can put his elbows around the back of his knees.
But that's not why he has the nickname he does. I'm pretty sure that Cassius could suck a golf ball through a hosepipe.
When he steps up to the mic he makes Monica Lewinsky look like a victim of lock jaw.
I mean, I must have beat him about the face with my uncooked spaghetti for about 40 minutes and he was loving every minute of it. Legendary.
To his friends he's known as Sally but to me, simply, Electrolux.
Dear Dominic Donnaccia. So young, so innocent yet as filthy as a German musclekid in the toilets at Bar Code in Vauxhall.
There is nothing Dominic didn't want to try.
I said 'play the rusty trombone', he gave me the Rimsky-Korsakov Concerto in every key from A flat upwards.
I said that I was going to pray with my knees pointing the wrong way around and he gave me more Hail Mary's than the Portuguese football team in the final minutes of a penalty shoot-out.
I told Dominic I wanted him to take it like my sister Kate (boy she shakes it like jelly on a plate) and by the time I could swing him around, he was moving like a Honalulu hula whore humping in happy Hawaii.
(FYI: Dominic loves nothing more than when you sprinkle your cheese all over his ravioli)
You know what they say about swimmers, lanky bodies and big feet? So true.
This is Paulo Pompino or as I like to call him "The Mamba from Milano."
24 - in years, centimetres and marks out of ten.
I mean, I was flossing my wisdom teeth and sinking the Bismarck for ages until he said he wanted to show me his trick pelvis. Goddam, he could flick it like a switchblade on a wayward youth in Turnpike Lane. So fast, so lethal, so sexy.
(By the way - he also works as part of a Belles of Broadway cabaret act. He does a drunk Liza Minnelli so well, it's like having the diva herself vomiting her vodka and painkillers on you.)
I've said him for last and there's a reason why.
There are few words to describe Fabio Fighetta but perhaps one would be chafe.
I tell you, it took about a week and a vat of soothing aloe vera gel to finally get rid of the rash between my legs from that beard.
But as the ancient proverb goes "once you put your hand in the flame, there's a certain satisfaction in a little bit of pain."
The pain of describing our encounter is one that I cannot bear. I think about it every day. So I will have to stop.
Fabio, if you're out there call me. Call me your bitch like you did that night.
We had our chance, it was a fine and true romance.
I can still recall our last summer. I still see it all. Walks along the
Our last summer, memories that remain.
Oh yeah, there's just one more thing to add.
Everything I've just written - everything above - is complete rubbish. I don't sleep with sportsmen who model underwear in their spare time. Or at least not ones who pose for D&G.