I was reading Rebecca Newman’s column in GQ during a flight back from Spain recently and nearly sprayed my orange juice over my lap after reading the advice she gave ‘JB’, who was interested to know the correct etiquette for ‘off the peg activities’ during a shooting weekend.

“You’ll have no problem at all. There’s nothing like a loaded gun to make a woman horny; shooting weekends are as much about the girls as the game,” replied Rebecca, who then gave a list of tell-tale signals the lady gun will give out when she wants ‘both barrels’ in her private chambers.

This got me to thinking, how many male guns are there out there who are horrified by the thought of women joining their line, only to fall over themselves to lay on the charm the second an attractive one shows up?

After being hypnotised by her alluring scent and being informed of regular visits in future, do they begin turning up to shoot days wearing Brut and cartridges belts filled mints and hair lacquer in the hope they’ll be in with a chance?

Scarier still, maybe there are guns who go shooting for the birds in the line as much as those in the sky, and concoct magnificent stories about themselves to attract the opposite sex.

I’m sure you know a few.

I can see it now, Mark, who leads a sinfully boring life as a civil servant during the week becomes ‘Marcus’, the devil-may-care hedge fund manager from Tunbridge Wells on Saturday mornings.

Marcus will present himself to lady guns with a kiss to the hand and will be as lethal with his silver tongue as he is with his over-under. He will raise his left eyebrow like Roger Moore as soon as the lady gun mentions she is unattatched, something, which he quickly points out makes his nights very long indeed.

Quick as a flash, he will suggest that, as the only singletons on the trip, they should stick together. The trap is set.

Between drives he’ll recite Shelly over cheese and sloe gin as she begins to draw closer into his web of sin, a welcome break from his usual lunchtime routine of natural yoghurt and a two-day-old newspaper.

He’ll be the first to refill her glass and offer a hand as she attempts to climb the stairs before bedtime. Despite being a complete phoney, there might be the odd occasion where he gets lucky.

Alas, even after a successful day’s work and discrete withdrawal in the morning, there will always be the realisation that he must return to the world of plain old Mark.

He’ll have left a note to say he’s away on business for the next month, but will silently stroke the game book containing her number as he settles into his windowless office, and then feel his heart sink as he realises the highlight of his day will be to call IT to fix his printer.

Still, there is always next weekend.