Matthew was cooking spag bol. It was his signature dish, according to his wife. Everyone should have a signature dish, and she said his was spag bol, although she didn’t have one, or couldn’t think of one, or perhaps she thought all her dishes were signature.

He thought about the phrase as he rummaged in the vegetable crisper. A dish you would sign your name on if it were a painting – a work of art. Oh good! Fresh chillies. They would really add some bite to the dish as well as more flavour than the chilli sauce or powder he usually added.

There were eight of them nestled in a polystyrene tray covered with clingfilm. Small, pointy and bright red, reminding him of bullets.

He had heard that the smaller the chilli, the hotter it is. But they liked their food spicy, so he decided to add four.

As he chopped them finely with a sharp knife, he considered removing the seeds, but as the chillies were so small, he didn’t want to risk them not having enough heat, so he chopped them up seeds and all, only removing the stalky green tips which he put in the rubbish bin. He wasn’t afraid of spicy food, and was proud of himself for regularly ordering his devil pizza at heat level 8. It made his eyes stream but cleared his sinuses. He chuckled at the thought of the wusses who wore gloves when handling chillis. He also prided himself on his cast iron hands, tough and hardy from all the outdoor work he did.

He scraped the chopped chillis off the chopping board into the bubbling mince mixture and gave a stir.

Busting for a pee, he darted to the loo and yanked out his dick, pointing it at the porcelain, relieved as he waited for the release, looking up at the ceiling and noticing the watermarks as was his custom, thinking to himself that he had to do a paint touch up.

Then he let out a low, agonised scream. His dick was on fire!