Not cut out to be a porn film director

The party at Mary Berry's old house in the country (ish) was a good one. A team of Polish Hog-Roasters had spent all day tending a pig on a spit, then completely spoilt it by serving the meat in huge, white, soft, sweet, tasteless and textureless buns.

There was a tent-full of sparkling wine, personally imported from the Limoux area of France, where the monks invented Champagne - or what the Champagne area of France calls its Blanquette. Most Limoux is far better than Champagne, and about one third of the price.

I went to a friend's wedding in the Limoux area just South of Carcassonne once, and I got more drunk than I have ever been in all my life, and that is saying something.

The old farm was right in the middle of the vineyard, and we were kept waiting for the banquet in the marquee for literally four hours, standing around in the blazing sun of the courtyard.

The local wine was constantly being topped up by a team of young ladies who had instructions to keep me amused until food time, and I can only remember most of the rest of the evening in a series of snapshots or tableaux, according to what was in front of my eyes between blinks.

The Boy was only about 8 years old at the time, so when I instructed him to gather up as many of the disposable cameras as he could carry from the the tables and crawl underneath them, take lots of pictures up all the women's skirts, then return the cameras to me, he did so immediately.

For about twenty minutes, he scuttled around under the white table cloths, and bright flashes were seen from various parts of the room where the women were seated. 'That's my boy', I thought.

He eventually handed me about 10 disposable cameras with exposed films, and I stole them to take back to England.

It cost me about £60 to get them all developed and printed, and not one of them showed anything at all except a gloomy and impenetrable patch of shadow.