I was like you once. Bitter, miserable, lonely, frightened, snotty, anxious, plagued by weirdly flakey nose skin yet an extraordinarily greasy forehead. I was scared. Scared of being abandoned. I filled in the emptiness of my life with pink fizzy wine when it was on offer at Waitrose. I went to Zumba. I ate whole packs of Cadbury’s Chocolate Orange Creme mini rolls from the Esso garage, and was so ashamed that I took to Facebook to publicly chide myself for “naughtiness”. I was voluble about my intense sexual feelings for Ryan Gosling, but when I sought physical release I’d get distracted and start wondering where my big carrier bag of receipts for the tax year 2011-2012 had got to.

The receipts were under the stairs next to a bucket filled with old Nintendo controllers. And my salvation lay within a packet of sausages. Because sausages are what you need to Get A Man.

Having a man is brilliant. You need never work again, because when your boss rings, you tell them your man has diarrhoea and you must tend to them. No-one can argue with poo – even pretend poo. And you’ll look like a hero, because it’s not your poo.

And then, there are the fabulous gifts. You sit down with the Argos catalogue and you choose anything you like! And if they love you, they have to buy it for you. Have to. If you want something basic like a Slendertone Pulsating Body System, just flash your nipples to seal the deal. If you’re looking at Elizabeth Duke hardware, you’re gonna have to suck him off or something, but ultimately, a minute on the lips is a fuck ton of diamante. You might call it “prostitution”, but I call it HAVING A MAN.

People look at me, all sparkly and pulsating and slightly spunk stained, and think that my amazing lifestyle is out of their reach. But for the very first time, I’m sharing my secrets. Read on. You’ll be married and settled and finally free of the awful aching emptiness before you can say chipolata. All you have to do is carry eight cooked sausages in your pockets at all times.

Seen a man you like? Worried he’ll look at you and be so reviled that he’ll cover you with an emergency blanket embroidered with soothing, sexy images of Megan Fox? Worry no more! Just walk up to him, take a deep breath and ask calmly and clearly “would you like a sausage?” No-one ever says no to sausages, not even vegetarians or monks. He will forever associate you with succulent, cylindrical pork, and the meaty smell will mask any odours escaping from your vagina, which – let’s be honest – is probably disgusting.

Being a man is harder than we silly ladies can ever know. They’re fretting about all that soil their ancestors tilled. They’re probably up to their ears at work, as someone is always giving them a hard time about The Sanderson Account. Or maybe they just want to see the news or play some awesome sports, but there are too many sexy naked women to watch on music channels. So men are always angry. But men must always be happy. If they are not kept happy, they will go red in the face and say mean things, or worse (and please don’t read this if you are of a sensitive disposition) – leave you. So if your man looks distressed, discomfited or he appears to be having digestive difficulties, wang him a nice hot sausage. For serious problems, try a selection, on a pre warmed plate, with some dipping mustard. Keep your eyes on his face at all times, because he will never tell you that he wants sausages. You just have to read his expression.

Good news! You can stop sobbing about your flabby, unwieldy buttocks and the fact that your tits look like stale Oat So Simple cooked up in two bobbly tube socks. The only body part that matters now is your man’s penis. Your man has the biggest penis you’ve ever seen. The very biggest. Don’t argue. If you feel like arguing, make a scale model of it in plaster of paris as he sleeps, and then take a screen shot of Ron Jeremy naked on your phone. Put the model next to the screen shot. See! The biggest!

Now to use sausages in a fun, erotic game that will make your man feel manlier than ever. Cook up a platter of cocktail party sausages, and take them to bed with you. Scatter them under the covers. When your man discovers these tiny pieces of meat, he’ll be thrilled. The tininess of the sausage will emphasise the hugeness of his penis! And you can eat them! Off his penis!

Warning: If your man is quite fat, there is a chance he’ll get the cocktail sausages caught in the creases of his stomach. Don’t draw attention to this – just let nature take its course.

Perhaps you have your period. Maybe you forgot to take your brain medicine and have momentarily stopped realising just how lucky you are to have a man. I don’t know, I can only assume that you must be mentally deficient in some way if it’s taken you this long to get one. Anyway, you might be seized with an urge to criticise your man because he shouted at you for cooking a terrible dinner or slept with your sister. Don’t do this. Men are built to be praised, adored and celebrated with penis themed artwork. If you say something that could be construed as a non positive or upsetting comment, they will suddenly get the disease that turns human beings into stone, like that girl in the documentary on Fiver, and start to die. It will be all your fault.

So, don’t be a Negative Nanette! Become a Positive Prudence with the power of pork. Cram sausages into your mouth and chew until those horrible, hateful feelings are forgotten! Because nothing turns “merely tolerating each other’s company until death strikes” into true love like a good go on a sausage.

If you liked this, please buy my book “You’d Better Not Be Bacon Up With Me”, available from all good supermarket butchers.

- DB