Attack of the seven-foot phallus

I have had many embarrassing experiences in my life. Being shouted at by Mrs Bradley in front of the whole class to stop running down the school corridor, aged 5. Not realising I had tissue paper stuck to my face whilst attempting to cruise Ian Roberts in a Sydney cocktail bar. Having my mobile go off - 'The Dying Swan' - in a memorial service. But none of these could have prepared me for what happened on Tuesday.

I had been asked to stand in for the Chief Executive at a high-profile national conference, giving a speech to about 150 leaders-of-tomorrow, and went along suited, booted and nose hairs trimmed ready to knock ‘em dead. All had been prepared for me, the organisers said; my biography distributed, the microphones sound-checked, and my PowerPoint presentation loaded onto a laptop. I was impressed – in fact a little awe-struck – by the scale of the hall I was to speak in, the grandeur of the lectern, and the cinema-sized projection screen aforementioned presentation was to be shown on. It was a damn professional set-up, but like every good speaker, I thought I’d just do a quick check before starting, and was glad I did; they’d loaded the wrong presentation!

"No need to panic," said I – "I’ve got it on my memory stick," and pulled it from my bag and handed it over. The organiser plugged it into the laptop, clicked on it from the menu, and up on the laptop screen in front of her eyes came the contents of my memory stick. Not just the PowerPoint presentations, oh no – the photographic contents as well. The shot of my erect cock; the shot of my erect cock held up for comparison next to a beer can (500ml since you’re asking) ; the full frontals – one nude, one in football kit; a veritable pornucopia of images that I had, I confess, forgotten were even on there.

But it gets worse. Remember the enormous screen I mentioned? The one facing a hall slowly filling with delegates? The one the laptop screen is projected on to? Oh yes. The projector was on, and there, in seven-foot glory, was each and every image. I leapt for the ‘Escape’ button quicker than a Heather Mills leaps for a headline and as God is my judge I cleared that screen before too many people can have seen it…but some did, some must have…and I stood there and delivered that presentation – from memory - like a true Chief Executive-in-waiting knowing that somewhere in that darkened hall, there were delegates who a few minutes before had seen a hell of a lot more of me than just the upper part of my Richard James-clad torso that rose above the lectern.

I finished - in forty-five minutes flat - and after an impressive round of applause and questions from the floor (none of them “So, how many inches is that monster?”) I fled from that room and like Lot leaving Sodom didn’t once look back.

Two days later, and the Chief Executive hasn’t called to extend her thanks yet. I am deeply, deeply concerned…