It’s starting to get to me, lying on the bed in the room next to the one in which another man is shagging my wife. Each shriek and each moan makes me tingle, but it’s not what you might be thinking.

At the beginning I guess it’s best to start, at that Uni politics dinner when Amanda launched a Yorkshire pudding wrapped around a pepper pot at the fat Tory MP when he was knocking out Rule Britannia on the out of tune piano. There was this blaze to her eyes as they marched her out of there, this blaze of spunk that made me chase on after. Together ever since, from the tail of Brown’s sorry premiership and all the leaders since, both of us true red Labour, but I guess if you’re a couple known as Peter and Mandy you’ve kind of got to be. At our wedding we launched paper lanterns inscribed with quotes from the party manifesto.

Sorry. Digression. Why is it that the painting shivering on the wall because of head board thumping gives me such joy?

Of course, you’ll have done the post coital deepest fantasy pillow talk. I’ll be clear, when I raised the subject there was this tiny part of me that somehow hoped that Mandy’s deepest was for Sandy, from my office, to join us for an athletic threesome.

But what Mandy actually said.

My God.

The depravity.

The shame of it, just to think of all those times I did try – I really did – those times when I stripped naked, did my face up as she wanted and then marched on into the bedroom only to find that Mr Happy was sulking.

It sure drives a wedge, when you cannot bring yourself to bed your own wife.

It was attempt number four that brought me to this bedroom next to where someone else’s Mr Happy was being Mr Busy. It was this year’s Labour conference, and Mandy was there by herself, because obviously I couldn’t be in love with her any more if I couldn’t bring myself to do that for her. It was spur of the moment that I took the room next to her. The staff there knew us both – hadn’t missed a conference in ten years. I explained I was there to surprise her, and they happily gave me a key for the connecting door. Then it was strip down, face on, Viagra inserted. Three seconds of Maggie’s coffin on its way into the church was enough for Mr Happy to wake and then I was through that door.

I went into a room of horror. A room in which my naked wife rode a naked man. This woman with her back to me but with my wife’s hair and with my wife’s rose tattoo on her right shoulder. She had my wife’s nearly come face too, hazy eyes that opened wide in sheer horror as she looked through my grey face whiskers to the man dying beneath. She screamed and entered the en-suite without touching the floor.

Her lover shot from the bed and we faced each other, both of us naked, both of us bearded. Together our eyes flicked down and then as one we tore the Jeremy Corbyn beards from our faces and clasped them to our nethers. Without his beard he had an owlish look to him, this weed of a man who’d been doing my wife.

I went for his beard, my intention to strip him of this shred of dignity and then leave him and his shame in the corridor. Rather more moist flesh than I intended, but it did serve as a convenient handle with which to lead him yelping from the bedroom.

That’s it, you’re caught up. That’s how we got to now, my wife in the bed next door screaming to Jeremy that she’s coming again. Silence now, the deed is done. And I cannot wait for my wife’s next scream, when I go in there and tell her the man done up as the Labour leader is really a Tory party activist.