Never mind death by chocolate or having egg on your face; I am getting completely killed in custard, and my mug is so soaked in sauce that my eyes are sealed shut.

Blind, I shriek as what feels like a bucket of soggy sea creatures suddenly splats onto my back, and gooey globules slurp slowly down my spine. I realise from the sickly-sweet smell that they’re actually tinned strawberries, and chuffing chilly they are too; as it seeps into my bikini top, the freezing fruit makes my raspberry ripples stand so much to attention that you could use them as snooker cues.