At this time of year men are even more unappealing than usual. Trousers, never safe at any season, suddenly acquire a Yule log with which the men in your life kindly offer to fill your stocking. I don't know about you, but I have better things to do at Christmas than spread my legs in the executive loo while some knobhead dressed as Santa fills my stocking. To add insult to injury, double entendres abound. Not only do we have to suffer 'I bet you'd like to pull my cracker,' but men will insist on shoving their tongues down the throats of complete strangers while waving a twig over their heads on the flimsy premise that it's some quaint pagan custom. I swear that If another man asks me if I 'want stuffing' I will insert something hotter than an advent candle up his parson's nose.

If only men offered us girls something special at Christmas we might be more appreciative, but we know only too well that Santa comes but once a year. So, you can imagine my horror when the Office Lothario, refusing my generous offer to empty the contents of his trousers into a kleenex, announced that he had booked the 'Bridal Suite' at a well-known Paris hotel for three nights to enjoy what he enthusiastically described as 'a dirty weekend'. Apparently some malicious secretary had told him I was 'stressed out' and suggested this unfortunate condition could be alleviated by 'a damn good seeing to.' For those of you who have not had the pleasure of a short break in Paris, in Winter with a balding middle-aged stick insect with all the sex appeal of a chartered accountant with halitosis, I will describe what's in store for you.

The journey will begin with your charming beau clumsily fingering your plum pudding in the car on the way to the airport. This will be followed by him icing your cake whilst he attempts (unsuccessfully) to take off your bra without crashing into anything. Unlike Santa he will not come down your chimney, but over your very expensive frock, and then only once. Naturally, he'll complain you've brought far too much luggage, ogle anything in a skirt when he thinks you're not looking and drink so much free Bubbly on the plane that he throws up over the stewardess. But this is a blessing in disguise, as he will be so drunk by the time you land, that you may be spared another sordid encounter with his yule log on the way to the hotel.

When you finally get to your destination, the 'Bridal Suite' will be occupied by a giggling secretary from Romford and her doting hubby, which means you'll be squeezed into an unheated closet overlooking the outdoor pissoir which the brochure omitted to mention. After your romantic partner has sobered up he will light your pudding by taking you roughly from behind while you are trying to catch up on the sleep you missed on the plane. If you are lucky you won't wake up until he's iced your pudding. He will complain endlessly about the time you're taking to dress before gallantly escorting you to the pissoir. When you tactfully point out that urinals are not usually provided in the dining area, he will utter a string of profanities and drag you into the restaurant berating the inadequacies of French signage and the stupidity of women.

He will order the finest French cuisine (pomme frites) and the most expensive wine on the menu (Vin de Wine Lake). He will insist on candles (which he will knock over) and beg you to slip your knickers off so he can catch a quick flash of the cherry soufflé between courses. Naturally the orchestra, (three asthmatic Algerians playing out of tune violins), will serenade you with the 'Blue Danube' while he gropes your bottom under the leering eye of the surly waiter. If you succumbed to the temptation to remove your knickers, this will be a lot more unpleasant than it need be.

After three Cointreaus and a gritty coffee which tastes like the inside of his socks, you'll wish you'd accepted the waiter's invitation to savour his cheese baguette. Instead you'll meekly follow your man as he staggers drunkenly back to the bedroom and pray he is too pissed to raise anything more than his dinner. But before you've closed the door his hands will be all over you, and his 'fun-sized' yule log halfway out of his trousers. He will then shag you solidly for two days. I use the word "shag" as loosely as his novelty whistle will fill your stocking. Foreplay will consist of struggling to find the entrance to your holly bush, after which he will clumsily mount you, shout his wife's name and deposit his greeting before you realise the lump between your legs isn't the real cracker you were expecting. This depressingly sad assault will be repeated at intervals throughout the next two days and nights. The icing on the cake will be the sound of the couple in the Bridal Suite humping their way into the Guinness book of records to the accompaniment of Dean Martin's 'I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.'

Disgust does not begin to convey the state of silent rage and loathing you will be reduced to by the end of the weekend. And while I am prepared to admit that a sexually unsophisticated secretary from Romford with tits several sizes larger than her brain might get some satisfaction from having her parson's nose pounded for 72 hours by a neanderthal builder with a yule log the size of a marrow, such seasonal jollity is no substitute for the stuffing every girl desires and men so rarely deliver. It goes without saying that the room will reek of garlic, the decor will be a nightmarish marriage between Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and Louis XIV, and the toilet filthy. The very sheets on which your enthusiastic lover ravages you, will be stiff with the crisp deposits of the fat sales rep who excited himself to an explosive climax only hours before, while watching Fifi, the naughty French schoolgirl, being disciplined by Monsieur Bastinadeux, on cable TV.

A dirty weekend in Paris? In your dreams guys! As it happened, I needn't have worried. When, during the Office Party, The Lothario suggested I might want to "nip to the ladies' and 'whip off those skimpy lace knickers,' I decided that drastic threats called for drastic measures. So I slipped a Rohypnol into his Cognac while his attention was distracted by the stripper gram girl and nipped his distasteful plan in the bud.

When we met the following week, I was only too pleased to confirm that the soreness of his cracker and his memory loss were entirely due to him 'having shagged me senseless for three days and nights.' To add credence to this story, I should explain that I had previously steeped his hideous yule log in a cup of very hot coffee so that it might have the authentic rawness which I am told results from such a sexual marathon. For his part, The Lothario favoured me with looks of satisfaction normally exhibited by a man who has single-handedly assembled a flat-pack Ikea kitchen armed with nothing more than a nail-file and a roll of sellotape.

I will now be able to enjoy a traditional family Christmas, secure in the knowledge that the only red hot bird getting stuffed will be the turkey. I wish all my female visitors an equally enjoyable Christmas. As for the men —well, there's always the Plum pudding. I'm told it's a lot more satisfying than creaming Apple Pie.

Hungry for more Festive fun? Read why Santa is coming twice this year
and why Stores are sacking Santas