Dear Peach,

SO I’m pounding at her gaping gash with four fingers of the best of British, when this dusky lass implores me to stick the fist up.

Yes, I’m on my sunny hols in the Costa and the c*** is ripe for picking.

This tasty piece was cleaning my room at the hotel when I offered her £20 for an extra bit of dusting.

But instead of the fist, she gets my juicy Cumberland and there’s enough room to get the old chestnuts up as well.

We had a lovely time and when she’d done she made the bed – what more can a man in Union Jack shorts want? Well, a full English, of course. But this bird didn’t have a clue and tried to get me to eat something called pastry... with jam. For breakfast!

What’s going on?

GD, by e-mail

Peach says…

MAYBE you can get her to eat your sausage instead.