Link your womb to the forcefield

I recall in abject terror a strange "Pick your own fruit" weekend over two days last September near my home. Apparently due to a shortage of migrant workers all the fruit is left rotting on the bushes with no one to collect it. They decided to charge a £2.50 entry and let people collect as much as they wanted. Some people came out with modest baskets full but I swear I saw one man re-attaching a trailer full of fruit to his Landrover. He saw me staring and winked at me.

I'd got there at about lunchtime on Sunday. By then the nearest rows had been stripped thoroughly and there was a thick layer of mashed fruit on the ground. Only a few rows away remained loads of fruit and the crowds thinned out the further away you got from the entrance.

Not wanting to stain any nice clothes, I'd turned up in those ones you keep at the back of the cupboard for painting in. But before I could get started, I began to feel rather nostalgic for them and opted to remove my trousers and underwear. Up and down each row I went, grasping fruit. One of mankind's greatest gifts is the opposable thumb that allows us to pluck tiny objects from the mouths of fools. After an hour my thumb, utilised in the fullest to grasp, was tired. My fruit lust nowhere near sated I decided to use my lovelength in place of my thumb. For one further earth hour I reached and grasped the juicy fruit between index finger and wang.

When I got home, the cat observed my purple stained finger and humptube and remarked, "I pity the fool that winds up in an intimate liaison with you" he quipped, whiskers twanging with mirth, "It would be rather like going to bed with a Smurf".

Though I was compelled to dash his impertinent head against the wall, I laughed heartily nonetheless.