I started a blog I couldn't finish... Beards, music, film, chilli.

Here’s one that never made the grade… I tried to get it published but my editor was having none of it, for some reason. JT, this is for you.

THERE’S smut in the air and it’s putting me off my lunch.

If you’re reading this from your office desk then you probably know what I’m talking about.

We all have colleagues who can (and will) make a sexual innuendo from the most innocent of sentences.

Some have it down to an art. You can’t fail to be impressed by the way they can produce a sex reference despite having almost nothing to work with.

Others don’t bother with innuendo. Why skirt around the issue when you can be outright about it? (Yes, I know that last sentence was full of potential for a filthy pun.)

Loud sex talk from the other side of the desk is enough to drive me spare.

I’m no prude, but as much as I like my work mates I don’t want to have to picture them doing things that would make Casanova blush.

If I’m having a good day I can shrug it off. If not, it’s like I’m serving some sort of prison sentence.

If Natalie Portman was writing for the News and decided to spill some intimate details I’d be all ears. But even then, my patience would wear pretty thin after hearing the umpteenth reference to rumpy-pumpy.

Please, please, please - no. Just no. I’m tired, it’s been a long week and those jokes stopped being funny when I left school.

You know who you are. It’s not big, it’s not clever  and if you make a gag out of that you will face my full fury.

But just before we close the subject, I’ll leave you with one of my favourite lines by ‘The Todd’, the double-entendre-obsessed surgeon from TV comedy Scrubs.

Female patient: “You know doctor, I’m getting a little tired of the sexual innuendo.”
The Todd (after a moment’s thought): “In your endo.”