All shook up by the bouncy brigade . . .

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I CAN think of only one thing worse than being on a bouncy castle.

And that is clambering aboard all that undulating yellow rubber in the nude. To join a load of starkers men.

Just imagine, all the stuff that looks like the gubbins you had to remember to pull out of a defrosted chicken before it went in the oven, bouncing and flapping before your eyes.

In fact, don’t. It is far too nauseating to contemplate.

But this, readers, is a hugely sexy pastime to some.

A landlord has just been chucked out of his Staffordshire pub for hosting sex parties, a highlight of which was the opportunity for nuddy revellers to get jiggy-jiggy on the bouncy castle. Swingers (how appropriate is that word) flocked to his saucy parties.

I’m having a party for my 50th, but the only sauce will be Heinz’s.

It goes without saying there will be no bouncy castle (the clue being in the number 50). Women my age don’t do anything bouncy. We haven’t lost our sense of fun, just our pelvic floors.

Somewhere between up and down, your bladder becomes lost in transition and something small and involuntary happens. The Tenna Lady people should get together with trampoline manufacturers. They’d make a mint.

And while we’re talking dam-busters, there’s also the bouncing boob problem to contend with. I wonder, did Barnes Wallis do a bit of research down the YWCA gym class before he came up with his idea? Not even a sports bra of industrial-strength proportions can stop a big lass from blacking her eyes on a bouncy castle.

Obviously, I won’t be subjecting my guests to such torture. All my pot-bellied bejowled friends, relatives and colleagues have to do is turn up as Elvis. Easy peasy; all they need is a wig and a catsuit. Nature’s done the rest.

Why HIM? Well, Elvis and I go back a long way. He could have been my father, if only it had been possible for women to conceive by snogging a life-sized, six-foot photograph.

A picture of Presley, from the 1956 western Love Me Tender, was on the back of our pantry door for years. When I was a baby (eerily, I had a quiff), mother would sit me in my Silver Cross high chair, open the pantry and leave me babbling to Elvis while she dusted.

Our bungalow reverberated to songs by the King. Most were on her Elizabethan reel-to-reel which gave up the ghost yonks ago. Her greatest lament still is that she can no longer play them. (The fact that there are tapes of her three children reciting their prayers matters much less).

I remember the night Elvis died. She shook me awake to tell me she had terrible news – I thought something had happened to my dad in his taxi. But no; the real, yet imagined, love of her life had died on a toilet (she has never accepted that bit).

Mother doesn’t know what to wear to the party. She says dressing as Elvis is disrespectful and refuses to be That Woman Priscilla. I’ve told her I’m sorry, but nude is not an option.