I'm doing a series of Christmas "ladies lunch club" lunch entertainments at the moment at a hotel in Eastbourne (UK) with my old mate Alan Day. At the end of the lunch, we do the "Twelve Days Of Christmas" - getting every table of ladies to sing a line at the appropriate time.

I'm having a hell of a job doing this because the words of a particularly filthy version of this (from army days) keep popping into my head, and I have to keep a tight reign on my voice while doing it. The version I don't want to sing goes:

Twelve twats a-twitching
Eleven lechers letching
Ten tits a-trembling
Nine nackers knocking
Eight arseholes aching
Seven saints a-shagging
Six pricks a-prodding
Five brown rings
Four shithouse doors
Three French letters
Two pairs of drawers...
And a penis in a pear tree.

There! That's done with - now, perhaps I can get on with the clean version!