“Don’t you dare ask for chips or so-help-me-God, I will slap you,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“People usually need more than his help if they slap me,” joked William Shakespeare.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor looked unnerved.

“I’m joking,” confirmed Shakespeare. “If I were ever going to beat you, I’d have done it after Music Gets The Best Of Me, wouldn’t I? Hmm?”

Ellis-Bextor seemed slightly reassured by this.

“Such a shit song,” said the bard, mostly to himself.

The pair stood outside the Fat Duck, plucking up the courage to walk inside.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” asked Sophie Ellis-Bextor to distract from the awkward situation.,”

Shakespeare leered at her creepily, but sensed he should answer sensibly. “Peacock,” he stated with conviction.

“Peacock? Really? What’s it like?”

“It’s all right,” said the bard, perfunctorily.

The pair stood there and stared at their feet.

“Come on, let’s go in,” said Shakespeare. “That jelly of quail won’t keep.”

“No chips,” said Ellis-Bextor, taking his arm.

“I don’t even like chips,” said Shakespeare. “That’s a bullshit joke.”

As they walked through the door, a man approached them.

“Don’t talk rot,” said Ellis-Bextor. “Everyone likes chips. I’ve seen you eat chips plenty of times.”

The maitre d’ stood patiently.

“Yeah, I eat chips,” said Shakespeare. “Of course I eat chips. I’m not saying I don’t eat them. I’m saying I’m not that bothered about them.”

“You said you didn’t like them,” countered Ellis-Bextor.

“Jesus, don’t take everything so literally. When I say I don’t like chips, I don’t mean I don’t like chips. I mean-”

“So what do you mean?” asked Ellis-Bextor disdainfully.

“I mean – for fuck’s sake – I mean… Okay, you were saying that I’d ask for chips like it was my favourite thing in the world. I’m saying I would never do that.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t you do that?”

“Because I’m not that bothered about chips. There’s about a million things I prefer.”

Ellis-Bextor released Shakespeare’s arm and looked skyward. She breathed heavily through her noise and opened her eyes widely in an effort to prevent the first tear from forming.

Shakespeare addressed the maitre d’. “Just tell me about the menu before we sit down,” he said. “Just name one dish. Name one thing that I can eat. Something special. Something that will convince me this is all worthwhile. Something unusual that I could never get anywhere else on earth.”

“Good evening, sir,” said the maitre d’. “Tonight’s most intriguing culinary experiment is baked steam.”

“Baked steam?” asked Shakespeare.

“Baked steam,” confirmed the maitre d’.

William Shakespeare and Sophie Ellis-Bextor stared at each other for a long moment, silently communicating something in the way that only those with unbearable levels of intimacy can manage.

Finally, Shakespeare turned back to the maitre d’. “Okay,” he said brightly. “We’ll give that a bash.”

“My legs ache, but I’m really glad we did that,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“If Ben Nevis thought it could get the better of William Shakespeare, it knows better now,” said Shakespeare.

Ellis-Bextor laughed and shoved him gently. “Sophie Ellis-Bextor conquered it as well, you know.”

“You didn’t teach it a lesson like I did though, did you?”

“No,” said Ellis-Bextor, suddenly serious. I don’t know why you did that really.

“I want that fucking mountain to remember me,” said Shakespeare.

“I think it will,” said Ellis-Bextor darkly.

The pair strode down the street until they came across the pub they were looking for.

“There it is,” said Ellis-Bextor. “The best pub in Fort William, they say. What better place to spend the evening after a hard day’s walking.”

They pushed through the door and were hit by warm air. Shakespeare had worked up a thirst. “Right, what are you having?” he asked.

“Ooh, let me see,” said Ellis-Bextor, but then she suddenly realised that Shakespeare was no longer next to her.

She turned round and he was still hovering in the doorway. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I dunno. I’m not sure about this place. I’m kind of having second thoughts.”

“What are you on about? It’s exactly what we were hoping for. Warm, quiet – we can have a few drinks and something to eat.”

Shakespeare shuffled his feet and wiped his palms down the sides of his breeches. “Yeah, but, you know. Shall we just have a look at somewhere else first?”

“Come on,” said Ellis-Bextor, but upon turning towards the bar, she realised the problem. There were three velociraptors standing there, peering at them and mouth-breathing.

She turned back towards Shakespeare. “Oh, I see. It’s this again.”

“What?” said Shakespeare, innocently.

“I don’t know what’s with you sometimes. Let’s just get a drink. It’ll be fine.”

One of the raptors emitted a high-pitched shriek. Shakespeare visibly jumped.

“Fuck this,” he said and turned to walk out.

Ellis-Bextor stormed after him. “Do you actually have any balls?” she roared.

“Yes,” sobbed Shakespeare, stumbling through the doorway. “They’re small and saggy and worthless.”

He cried all the way back to the hotel and Ellis-Bextor walked with one hand on his back, forlornly trying to comfort him. She felt extraordinary guilt at having homed in one of his biggest insecurities in the heat of the moment.

Only when they got back to the hotel did Shakespeare appear to perk up. “Give me a blowie,” he demanded.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor admired the gushing waters before her. “Oh, that is quite-”

“Breathtaking?” interrupted William Shakespeare.

“Are you having a go at me?” asked Ellis-Bextor. “I know you think I overuse that word.”

“No, no,” said Shakespeare, feigning innocence. “It’s not overused at all.”

“It’s not like you don’t bore me sometimes,” snapped the singing toff. “If I have to hear you bleating about another one of those sonnets.”

“What’s wrong with my sonnets?” asked Shakespeare.

“Just about everything. When I was working with Spiller, we had this joke about iambic pentameter, about the kinds of people who thought that was rhythm.”

“Oh fuck you,” said Shakespeare. “It’s always Spiller this, Spiller that with you. It’s like Groovejet is all you’ve ever done.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Groovejet,” said Ellis-Bextor. “And there’s nothing wrong with Spiller.”

With a swoosh of his ridiculous velvet jerkin, Shakespeare whirled round and strode off along the river bank. Ellis-Bextor opted not to follow him.

After 20 minutes or so, the pasty-faced vocalist had calmed down a touch and decided to go after the bard with the intention of making peace. As she rounded a bend in the river, she was greeted by an astonishing sight.

Shakespeare was standing on two stones in the middle of the river. His lower garments were lying discarded on the riverband and he was squatting so that his testicles were being buffetted by the cool waters cascading over a higher rock behind him.

Ellis-Bextor was aghast. “What… What are you doing?” she said, barely able to form the words.

“Isn’t it obvious?” screamed Shakespeare in a deranged tone, his voice cracking with the effort of suppressing his powerful emotions. “I’m trying to give you what you want. I’m trying to improve myself. I’m trying to win your approval.”

“How?” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor in stunned incomprehension.

Shakespeare stood up and raced over to her, completely naked from the waist down.

“Quickly,” he said. “Give me your hand before they warm up. Feel how taut they are.”

“It’s quite breathtaking,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“Indeed,” agreed Shakespeare. “It’s sad that there are no written records that might let us know what it was for.”

“Quite, quite breathtaking,” said Ellis-Bextor, shedding a small tear.

“Then again, I suppose the mystery is half the attraction. If its true purpose were revealed, it would doubtless be far more prosaic than what we imagine in our ignorance.”

Shakespeare fluffed up his sheer linen collar and then risked a sidelong glance at Ellis-Bextor who had dropped to her knees, overcome with emotion.

“What’s up with you?” he asked.

“It’s just that it’s so… breathtaking,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“Breathtaking?”

“Breathtaking.”

There was a long silence, punctuated only by sobbing sounds emitting from the posho popster. Shakespeare regarded her forlornly before squatting down next to her and laying an arm across her heaving shoulders.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look me in the eyes.”

Ellis-Bextor looked up and Shakespeare handed her a tissue to wipe away the tears. Their eyes met, causing Ellis-Bextor’s face to subtly relax.

Shakespeare gently squeezed her shoulder and smiled at her kindly.

“Do you want to have sex?” he asked.