I’m the most elite member of the UK military.

I’m too scary to be allowed into the SAS, too hardcore for the Royal Marines or SBS, too subtle for the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, too tasty in a scrap for the Parachute Regiment.

I’m an elite highly-trained professional who’s passed the most difficult course in the British military – codenamed “underwater basket weaving”. (I could tell you more about it but… you know the drill, nudge nudge, wink wink, eh? Know what I mean? Know what I mean?)

So I’m on Super Duper Top Secret Standby ready to be unleashed on the Queen’s enemies should they cause sufficient inconvenience.

There is the minor difficulty that apparently I have to be personally registered as a Weapon of Mass Destruction under arms-control treaties because of my elite military skills, incredible good looks, nuclear sex appeal and general awesomeness, so I’m reserved for only the most serious contingencies.

So I’m on standby in a nice room (no windows, sadly, so I can’t taste-test them) with all the crayons I can eat in lots of colours, waiting for the call.