I had the weirdest dream the other night, I could remember almost all of it clearly; I remember that I was standing in front of a board with a football pitch stencilled on it and a series of moves chalked onto its surface.

Not that odd you would think, I was just dreaming of being a football manager and what’s so weird about that?

Well I will tell you.

The team was comprised of food.

My star striker was a squat fast food burger; my tall lean central defender was a bottle of English Mustard; my goalkeeper was a solid and reliable stick of Blackpool rock and my silky skilled tenacious tackling central midfielder was a chocolate bar of Nestle crunch.

And when I looked at the rest of my team it was no different, the rest of the squad was made up of an apple, a custard tart, a jar of coffee, a banana and a host of other products that would have been available at your local supermarket.

Now I’m not fixated on food, in fact I’m one of those people that view food as a necessary evil, fuel for life, not meant to be enjoyed, just consumed. In fact I could work for hours before even thinking about taking a bite to eat.

And I don’t like football, I’m a rugby man.

That was why the dream was odd, but not why it was weird.

No it was weird because I was a sausage.

Yes you heard me right, a sausage.

Now I’m sure that a psychoanalyst would have a great time decoding why I dreamt myself into a Lincolnshire sausage; but I can tell you that I had a normal childhood, normal parents and have no unusual hang-ups.

I shall tell you why I dreamt of being a sausage, its my new girlfriend, I met her in a wine bar, an unusual place for me as I prefer old looking boozers with old nicotine stains on the walls and peeling paint and rotten looking furniture that looks like it will collapse if you sit on it, but no I was in the wine bar because I had forget to eat…again.

So I had dived in the wine bar, grabbed a quick drink and some bar food and had met a girl.

I had made a pass at her; not that unusual after all I’m quite lucky with the ladies.
But she had turned me down.

So I came back day after day, cracking corny jokes, having a drink and ordering the only palatable thing on the menu - a sausage sandwich.

So I guess it doesn’t take a genius to work out that was why I dreamt of being the greatest of British inventions – the banger.

But the weirdest thing of all and the pure genius of the dream is that Sophie is a vegetarian.​