I’ve been eating cheese recently, and I’ve been getting bad dreams. Last night I was chased by a wedge of Dubliner riding a bicycle and screaming out J. P. Donleavy’s The Ginger Man.
The night before, it was a stinky piece of Stilton, dressed in rags and carrying a shopping bag that contained my severed head.
Before that, a soft brie, relaxed on summer grass, a big bottle of wine beside it, called me over for a shag.
Before that, a wine-laced Drunken Goat followed me into the men’s bathroom and devoured me with a large belch.
The worst one yet, though, is the Caerphilly. Speaking Welsh, with a fat content of around 48 percent, the almost-white, sour-tanged cheese dragged me down into a mine pit and had me work and work and work, lapping up the salt from my sweat until I died of exhaustion.
If this goes on, I might be forced to keep crackers on the bedside table.