Fire, O Fire. You are so much more than sex.

Fire. O you magnificent beast. O you roaring primeval thing. You sex maddened thing. This column is a tribute to you, you almighty yellow haired mistress of light.

I get huge kick out of lighting a fire. Not in a pyromaniac sort of way, more of a cavewoman grunty sort of way. I am master of fire. Fire-be-hot-I-control-you. It's really about ego.

As Tarantino would say, I got the whole steeple thing down pat, I don't be letting the ambers cool and everything. I don't even use firestarters.

There's this little test you can give your potential lover, and trust me, it works a treat. You ask them three questions. (I'm getting back to fire in a sec. )

1. What is your favourite animal and give me three adjectives (that's a describing word for the fellow I-played-snooker-in-halls-instead-of-going-to-classes people out there.)
2. What is your favourite drinking vessel and three words to describe it. E.g. Shot glass, champagne flute, teacup etc.
3. When you think of fire, what three words immediately spring to mind?

Now this little doozie is a sure fire winner. It'll tell you everything you need to know about that person. The words they use to describe their favourite animal are how they see themselves. The drinking vessel is what physical body type they like to rub noodles with, um have sex with. And finally, O finally, FIRE – how they feel about fire - is how they feel about sex itself.

But now fire to me is more than sexuality, it's primal and... and well, just very fucking cool. I get all cavewoman and crouch down and rip off the newspaper and plunge my poker in and watch it roar into life, smouldering ashes bursting into flame. Powerful, dominant bursts. Exciting.

Hang on.

That is kind of sexual isn't it?

Blush.

Okay random comment here, but today I read a statistic that as men age, they get more and more into dominant sex. (http://blog.okcupid.com/ )Whodda thought? Just thought I'd mention it. Not sure why. Moving on.

Digression over – back to fire not being about sex.

Fire, O fire. I like you. Your capricious little turrets of colour, licking and supping from the almighty log. Your spurts and splutters of noise and colour, your maddening flickering and warm oozy hotness, roaring into a satisfying climax with bursts and eddies... then eventual cooling into exhausted smouldering warmth.

O fire. Nuthin' but sweet innocence about you. O fire.