This is simply a potted reference, and a slightly inpolitically correct one, to the depressing Saturday night I had in a pub, while instead I should have been indoors trying to find contact details for Fatima Whitbread.
The title above refers to the young lady who I was talking to and who I was hoping to get to know better, yet she turned on her heels and fled whilst I was ordering a drink for the two of us at the bar, and presumably found a dark alcove in which to hide from me for the rest of the evening.
I've since decided never again to use the line "...us men like big bottoms like yours. They remind us of big old comfy cushions..." which I thought was quite a sweet thing to say. The thing is, she actually laughed at the time and agreed that the size of her posterior was a positive thing.
I've also come to the decision that should Bernard Matthews, owner of possibly the largest poultry farm in the world and one of the 24 individuals I have tonight written a letter to, agree to meet me in Norfolk, then I won't jokingly inform him that I just heard one of his turkeys sneezing, as the poor man will probably become sick with worry.
Just 70 shopping days until Christmas after all.
I've got some other important news about Greeting the 500. I have unilaterally decided that my challenge will no longer end in mid-January but instead on January 31st.
Anyone who reads this site regularly will be aware that one of the most important rules agreed between Michael and I when setting up our bet, was that in the interest of fair play, the 500 people on the list should all be based on these shores, so as to give me a sporting chance of garnering their handshake.
I've since written to George Michael and Sheena Easton in California, and to Simon Rattle, leader of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in, erm, Berlin.
I'm not sure if the latter spends all of his time in Germany, perhaps he only works part-time there and spends some time in England, a semi-conductor if you like, but anyway this situation is getting seriously out of hand. I've since discovered that others I've already written to who live abroad include Roger Moore (Switzerland) and Keith Floyd (South of France).
Meanwhile, Anthony Hopkins lives in LA and world renowned neuro-psychologist and author, Oliver Sacks, to whom I also wrote today, apparently lives and works in New York. In fact when I discovered this, I let slip a string of short sharp expletives.
Ironic, then, that on further scanning his website I learnt that Professor Sacks has been investigating the 'neuroanthropology of Tourettes Syndrome'.
So anyway, the cherry on the proverbial black forest gateaux became clear when I phoned Michael to ask him who on earth the 'David Jacobs' on my list was. "He's the fashion bloke. The one who makes that perfume you wear (aftershave). He's British, isn't he?"
I've since checked the profile of Marc Jacobs on Wikipedia, the first line of which read, "Marc Jacobs is an American fashion designer who was raised in New York."
We have therefore agreed that I will be allowed to replace Marc/David Jacobs with someone else, seeing as how my pea-brained colleague couldn't even get his name right. My target of 100 will remain the same, but I will get an extra two weeks to work with.
Michael doesn't really have a leg to stand on. Just as well then, that he spends most of his life in a prone position on his settee watching Star Trek Deep Space Nine.
Following the sad passing of Ronnie Barker recently, we couldn't decide whether to subsequently include the up-and-coming tennis star Andy Murray, or the up-and-coming boxing star Amir Khan. With Mr Jacobs being taken off, both of these bright young things have now been added.
So these are the 24 protagonists to whom I wrote today: Bernard Matthews, Anthony Hopkins, Oliver Sacks, Willie Carson, Nick Hornby, Chris Kamara, Cilla Black, John Virgo, Lynda La Plante, Mike Leigh, Sally Gunnell, Jeremy Paxman, Sanjeev Bhaskar, John Le Carre, Martin Kemp, Joan Collins, Ronnie O'Sullivan, Sue Barker, Robbie Coltrane, Billy Connolly, Lawrence Dallaglio, Liz Hurley, Simon Cowell and Steve Davis.