Porn films are generally directed by a guy who looks like he couldn’t get laid in a brothel. He may have a grotesque piece of face foliage. He will almost certainly be sweating.

Never shake this man by the hand.

I know this. I know all there is to know about the industry. I’m a fucking pro.

Except this. This was new.

I arrived on set and the director, Manfred Ernst Lollycatcher, grabbed me by the hand, pumping it vigorously. Instinctively I wiped my palm on my trouser leg. Mistake. Beige slacks. Huge greasy stain.

“Oh, good to have you my man, good to have you.” He tugged at the small pubic nest hanging from his chin. “Now strip.”

“What. No preamble?” The wallpaper was visibly peeling and a damp patch above Manfred’s head bulged ominously. “By the way this is a shithole.”

“Forget shitholes. This is a whole different kind of filth.”

“I doubt it.”

And then my doubts evaporated. She walked in.

“Helen Mirren?” I looked at Manfred.

“That’s Dame Helen Mirren to you,” she smiled. “Shall we start?”

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