A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DICK IT usually starts about 4am: the tossing, the turning. His dreams start going nuts, his R.E.Ms go into overdrive. All flesh and nuns and donkeys. So, that's me on duty until morning. You see, it's a given. When FB wakes (FB = Freckle Bollocks - I've got all the angles covered down here) I've got to be alert. No slouching around for the old chap. When that alarm goes I'm already there, primed and ready for inspection. A few years back I used to get roughed up most mornings. Now I'm lucky if I get a handshake.

About once a week FB gives me a work out. But let's be honest here: two minutes and I'm bushed. I'm shriveled up like a Christmas balloon come spring. I'm slowing, I know it. Back in the day, when I was still growing, still working on my beard, I was so hyped up that a 60 second finger boogie used to knock me out…and in those days FB was merciless, giving me 15 minutes rest at best before yanking me back to life. He kept me up all night. But things have changed since I got a partner. She visits me most nights, wraps herself around me, giving me a full body massage. We get along well, have a chat whilst FB and his woman do the grunt and grind. We exchange liquid donations and then slink back - me totally shagged, her just limbering up - to our respective pants.

But hey, what's with the Calvins? My two spherical associates moan about it all day. 'Check that restriction!' They squeal. Those fellas have been hanging loose since day one - nappies, y-fronts, baggy briefs, boxers. We had enough room to swing a crab. But now, since my partner - the female element, has been on the scene, we be all crushed like escapees from the dreaded choccy channel. And we've started to smell like them, too. I don't know about you but being vacuum packed in white cotton gets me up and down like a flesh yo-yo. I get hot, I stretch out; I get sweaty, I recoil.

And FB's woman, she cannot get enough of me. There seems to be something inherently desirable about my poor self when I'm crushed up like a sausage in a straight jacket. Her hands are all over me like a cheap suit. (And since we're on the minced meat analogy, despite what FB might say, I'm neither a Cumberland, a frankfurter or a saveloy…I'm strictly Chipolata.) These pants, Jesus H., they'll be the death of me. Unless, of course, FB's woman strangles me first.