One attraction of my glamorous life as an IT consultant travelling all over Europe is the opportunity to conduct illicit affairs with beautiful lap dancers from Prague (who are definitely not transvestites). For the last three years, I have been secretly engaged in such a liaison with a beautiful young lady called Iris.

Unfortunately, due to Iris’ work commitments, our meetings are limited to brief, breathless, stolen trysts in the arrivals and departure halls at the various terminals at London Heathrow.

Originally, like most shy, reserved young ladies being stalked by an aging, overweight business man, Iris played slightly hard to get and actually stood me up on our first date but I wasn’t to be deterred and I persevered to win the heart of my beloved.

Eventually, the course of true love prevailed and our relationship blossomed. Iris and I enjoyed furtive, passionate encounters in the toilets at Heathrow with novelty condoms to spice up the relationship.

Whenever I returned to the UK after being abroad, I would positively look forward to meeting Iris and staring into her eyes. In fact, if I didn’t stare into her eyes, she would often scold me in her dull, mechanic monotone voice: ‘Please stand back a little’ or ‘Please move to the right’.

However, when I finally got the positioning correct, I was rewarded by an orgasmic moan: ‘Ooh - aah. That’s right. Ooh - aah Cantona. That’s perfect. Just keep it there.’ Then, she would part her smoked glass double doors and invite me to enter the gateway to heaven. And baggage reclaim.

Last Friday, I returned from Dusseldorf (near Germany) and returned via Terminal 1. My excitement mounted as I made my way to meet Iris as I hadn’t seen her since a short trip to a freezing Helsinki (near Finland) in January.

My heart raced as I finally set eyes on Iris again but I could immediately sense something was wrong. She seemed cold and aloof. She didn’t acknowledge my presence in the booth. She didn’t look into my eyes. She didn’t ask me to move closer. Nor did she ask to me move away.

A stony silence ensued. The tension grew. I moved forward - no reaction. I desperately tried to look Iris in the eyes but nothing. Suddenly, Iris asked me to look into the middle camera unit and I found myself squatting down, desperately trying to catch her eye and get her attention.

The interminable silent treatment from my lover continued. God - this was so embarrassing. I could sense the whole army of arriving passengers staring at Iris and I falling out of love.

Then finally, she came out and said it. She didn’t bother with any pleasantries. No long, rambling, tearful conversation starting ‘Dear John’. No hesitant ‘This isn’t about you - it’s about me.’ Iris just ended our three year relationship - three years filled with laughter, joy and slurping noises - with the immortal words: ‘Your data can not be reconciled. Please seek assistance.’

With my face reddening, I turned to go. To my horror, a lengthy queue of important looking business types (some with BA Executive Gold cards) had slowly gathered behind Iris. Iris already had a stream of 30 handsome suitors queuing up to take my place. As I walked away, crestfallen, I overheard a gentleman mutter ‘Idiot - you shouldn’t even be allowed to use Iris.’ while another said ‘I’m going to miss my meeting now, you fool.’

Broken, I walked away and took my place in the queue for conventional passport control. After 25 minutes, the Iris queue had fully dissipated and my paper passport was checked fleetingly by a pretty young lady with auburn hair and a striking figure.

She smiled knowingly: ‘Have you just been rejected by Iris ?’ ‘No - what on earth makes you think that ?’ ‘Well - I watched you get rejected by Iris earlier, your face is blotchy and I can tell you’ve been crying.’

‘Anyway, forget Iris - let’s talk about us. What time do you knock off tonight ?’

[ This whole sorry episode will be screen on ‘UK Border Force’ on Sky 1 on Thursday April 8 at 20:00 ]