Father Simon and your mercurial collective,

Many years ago, when you were still trendy and on Radio 1, I was a fighter pilot in the R.A.F.

Eager to live up to the reputation of my illustrious forebears, I engaged fully in what were known then as "high jinks" but in other, less privileged, circles would be more commonly referred to as "offences to be taken under consideration".

One such event took place during a major NATO detachment in France. On the night in question, our hosts had laid on a party on a grand scale in an aircraft hanger. Everyone was dressed up for the occasion and they had even bussed in a coach-load of nurses from the local hospital so that there wouldn't have to be any "man-to-man" dancing!

It was a grand do indeed and the beer and wine flowed freely; very freely in fact, as our French friends were generously picking up the entire bill. Each table groaned under the weight of a cold buffet of the kind that only a country of gastronomes could imagine, with the centre-piece of each being a huge cold poached Pike (of the fishy, not pokey, variety).

After a period of imbibing resulting in a state of inebriation, my navigator, a man of equally high spirits, produced a box of crow-scarers. These, for the uninitiated, are small but very powerful (and very loud) "bangers" which have an approximate 5 second fuse. He suggested that we put them to good use...

Now, anyone can simply light a banger, throw it into a crowd and enjoy the resulting mayhem – although I’d strongly suggest they don’t do that, ever. But my navigator and I were of a more inventive ilk. Eyeing the resplendent buffets all around me, I wondered what effect these small WMDs would have on a large freshwater fish. Very foolish of me, I know now. Sneaking up to a nearby table, I surreptitiously slipped a lit crow-scarer into the Pike's mouth; my word - what fun! Never has a fish's head been more liberally distributed and in such fine quantities.

There followed a series of muffled bangs followed by shrieks and a general hint of 'eau de pike'. We were in high jinks heaven. However, our displays were now getting some unwanted attention - and the supply of fish was dwindling (not surprising really) and I felt a grand gesture was needed before we were caught and expelled.

Closer inspection revealed that each table also had a splendid cheese board containing, among other delights, a small whole Brie. Not your UK-standard, EU-conforming refrigerated nonsense, but a nice, ripe and soft version. In a flash of inspiration I picked one up, carved a small hole through the centre, inserted a crow-scarer, lit the fuse, counted to two and lobbed it high over the crowded dance floor.

The result exceeded my wildest dreams. It was a perfect air-burst - exploding about three feet above the oblivious dancers; it was as though every gull in Brittany had decided to come together for a bout of mass incontinence. When the dust settled there wasn't a single dancer who hadn't been blessed with a small cheesy reminder of the night's events, and I beat a hasty retreat to a dark corner and flew home very early the next day, just ahead of the lynch-mob.

I know now father Simon that this was, indeed, a very very stupid thing to do, and so I come to the point where I must ask for your forgiveness. Not for those party-goers whose evening I spoiled (or enriched, depending on your viewpoint) - they were French, after all, and must surely by now have become used to disappointment. No, I seek forgiveness for all the extra work that the local dry-cleaners must have suffered in their attempts to remove a strange embedded mixture of fish and cheese from the locals' finery.

I throw myself on your collective mercy.

Bill.