The following is a work of pure fiction, based on the experiences of a fictional character in a fictional meeting with a fictional version of ITV television presenter, Adrian Chiles.

It should not be read by minors.

It was touch and go. One wrong move, and Chiles’ pile might drop, suspended as it was on a dwindling tissue-string, stuck fast by a single strand of congealed mucus. The once-bearded ex-One Show presenter was on all fours in my boudoir after a night at the local Wetherspoons, huffing and puffing his great girth like a birthing heifer in a scene from all Creatures Great & Small. Except this magnificent Brummie creature was quite without his smalls, his rotund posterior high in the air like an unclenched fist of flesh.

The stench from his anus was crippling.

Tears in my eyes, I asked Adrian what on earth he expected me to do. In his broad, West Midlands brogue he put his head on his shoulder and looked back at me, those sleepy eyes - now straining - his chubby cheeks vibrating with a mad and unfulfilled fucklust.

‘Just remove the flippin’ cangle-brackner and then stick the ruddy pin in!’ he wailed, before tsking and tutting, rolling a heavy, dangling moob between his index and thumb to keep his pecker turgid. The haemorrhoid had barred us from our passion all evening and Adrian was insistent we simply pluck the grape from the vine in order that I might finally push a rolling-pin up his gaping fart-flap before silently milking his passage.

But progress was not to be that simple. This was an enormous balloon of a sphincter-bulge, and I worried that any puncture might cause unprecedented rectal embarrassment.

‘But it’s so fat, Adey baby. I’ll never wrench this off without catastrophe! The shit will quite literally hit this fan. And the sheets. And my balls! We need an expert here’.

‘Expert, y’say?’ asked the ridiculous, hairy baby. ‘We’ve got experts! Right you are…’

Within seconds he was on his blackberry, gabbling away in regional tongues as I shielded his dangleberry from the drop, cradling it like it was a farting, wizened infant.

Instantaneously, the doorbell chimed and the sound of a toffee-nozzled chuckling emenated from behind the frontal entrance. ‘Giles!’ I roared as Brandreth wandered in, wearing only a woollen jumper and grimacing at the sight before him, his acorn drooping down from beneath the rim of his jersey. Adrian all doggy, and me behind his hairy back, now attempting to sellotape the Chile-pile to his considerable left cheek.

‘Hold your horses, common oik!’ blathered Brandreth. ‘There’ll be no need for sticky tapes!’

He pulled a pair of common or garden shears from a leather suitcase and began to snap at the air. In a flash, he had his jumper off, stuffing it in Adrian’s mouth and ordering him to close his eyes. He rounded on the ITV presenter’s backside and offered me a kinky ickle wink from sharp eyes.

‘Bite down hard, Adrian. This’ll only take a tiny tickety-boo’…

All the while, I could only think of Carol Thatch, and what she’d have given to be there then.