POOR old Fat Boy. His wife has been going out with another DJ for six months and he never even knew it. But then the love life of Zoë Ball is a murky and perilous thing, and even the most unlikely chaps can be horribly compromised by its mysteries.

I am no exception, and my Zoë Ball anecdote goes like this: I was at a card game at my sister’s place a few years ago with the usual crowd — Matt, John, Jon and Rodge — and also a friend of Jon’s called Hal, a nice-looking smiley guy who drank a lot of wine and won some money.

As I dealt out a hand I started talking about Zoë Ball. A random choice.

Lads’ talk. I had been at a film screening that day at which Miss Ball had been the only other viewer, and I reckoned the guys would be pretty impressed with my recent proximity to the rich and saucy. I elaborated hugely, suggesting that I had slithered into the seat next to her and by no means found my advances rejected.

Nobody said much, but I don’t like to be ignored so I said: “Did you see those photos of her naked and painted blue in the Daily Mirror the other day? You could see most of one of her nipples, and there was definitely a glimpse of pube.” (I know this is not much of an advertisement for my conversational skills, but that’s how it is when it’s just the boys. Apart from my sister, who doesn’t count.)

I listed some more parts of Zoë Ball with which I planned to make a closer acquaintance and declared (I was possibly a little drunk) that if she were my bird I wouldn’t want her showing her bits and pieces off like that, but what lovely bits and pieces they were. I said she must be desperate for attention and that her boyfriend must be failing to service her in the way she deserves. I hazarded a guess that he was either on the way out, or gay.

Poker talk, not for the squeamish. But nobody took up the baton and conversation soon returned to the time John nearly won a three-grand pot but the other guy had better cards . . .

About two in the morning, the game broke up and Jon offered Hal a lift home.

“No thanks,” said Hal. “I’ll walk round to Zoë’s, she’s only in Belsize Park.” I looked at my sister. I shook my head and mouthed: “Not Zoë Ball?”

She looked back at me and nodded very slowly. And I mouthed: “She’s not his girlfriend?” And my sister nodded again.

That was four years ago and I have hardly slept since. At odd times of the day I still fall to my knees and howl: “Why did I mention the pubes?” But now that Zoë Ball’s life turns out to be the kind of life where even her husband doesn’t know who her boyfriend is, well, I think my recovery can begin.

LAST year I inaugurated a Golden Clipboard Award for New Medical Research Which Proves What Was Blindingly Obvious in the First Place. The first two winners were the Mayo Clinic in Florida (little magnetic bracelets do not relieve muscle pain) and our own Medical Research Council (you can’t beat cancer with positive thinking). I haven’t really been scouring for entries since then but I could not help noticing the announcement this week from scientists at Exeter University who have discovered that “arnica does not reduce pain and has no healing properties”. Excellent work, chaps. Excellent work.

NEW traffic cameras are on the way which will film not just your car but your face. Presumably we will now be getting arrested months after the event for such offences as “looking as if you were thinking about speeding”, “giving the camera a funny look” and “shouting out the answers to Brain of Britain before Robert Robinson has finished reading the question”.