The Untamed Spirit of Joanne.

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Where does one begin with Joanne?, She's a walking contradiction wrapped in lace and sprayed with Lynx Africa. You meet her and think, “Ah, she’s probably into Pilates and poetry,” but no she’s got the calorie count of a Greggs steak bake memorised and the libido of a stag party in Magaluf.

She’s got knickers for every mood, every moon phase, and every Mercury retrograde. Tuesday? Leopard print. Full moon in Scorpio? Red lace with a vengeance. You open her drawer and it’s like the Victoria’s Secret catalogue collided with a horoscope chart. “These ones are for when I feel powerful,” she says, holding up a pair that could legally be classified as dental floss.

And aftershave! Not perfume, no aftershave. She wants her men to smell like they’ve just wrestled a bear and then gone for a pint. She’ll sniff a bloke and go, “Mmm, Brut. That’s a man who’s seen things.” She doesn’t want subtle notes of bergamot. She wants testosterone in a bottle, preferably with a splash of regret and a hint of midlife crisis.

Now, the signs of the zodiac don’t get her started. She’ll size you up in seconds: “You’re a Gemini, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you butter your toast.” You think she’s joking, but she’s deadly serious. She once dumped a lad because his moon was in Virgo. “He was emotionally constipated,” she said, like she’d diagnosed him with a telescope and a copy of Cosmopolitan.

And Twickers! Oh, Twickenham, the holy land. She doesn’t care who’s playing England, Fiji, the local pub team! She just wants the roar, the mud, and the thighs. She’s not there for the sport, she’s there for the spectacle. “Rugby,” she says, “is just ballet with bruises and better shorts.”

And the Chardonnay! Not a small glass! Hell no she wants a bucket. She drinks it like it’s a performance enhancer. “It’s my truth serum,” she says, halfway through bottle number two, suddenly fluent in French and ready to arm-wrestle a Taurus.

Joanne’s not just a woman she’s a lifestyle. She’s the kind of person who’d bring a hip flask to a yoga class and rate the instructor’s aura out of ten. You don’t meet Joanne. You survive her!

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