I can exclusively reveal that the Beckhams are coming to York for Ascot. I'm not supposed to say a word, but I know you can keep a secret. After all, you didn't tell anyone about Lord Lucan being in my shed, did you?

I got a text from Becks (which is a lot easier to write than say) this week. After the usual formalities - "what are you wearing?" and "do you want a pic of me in my pants?", that sort of thing - he told me that Vic and the boys would be coming with him to "look at them nice horses bean (sic) ridden by them dwarfs".

It goes without saying of course that I immediately texted him back, sending a copy directly to the News Of The World so they don't have to bother bugging my phone at a later date or photograph me wearing lingerie and high heels for no apparent reason. Don't bother booking a fancy hotel Dave, I wrote, you can all bunk in with us.

He had a word with her indoors and Bob's your uncle (which is quite a coincidence really, because Bob is actually my uncle). To cut a long story short, come June next year, David, Victoria, Manhattan and Bottom will be residing chez Haywood.

It's the best solution all round. We've got a spare room for Posh and Becks, the boys can share with my lad, we'll shove the baby's cot into a corner so there's room for the Gucci luggage in her room, and the rest of the entourage can sleep in the shed. It'll be tight, but if Lord Lucan budges up a bit, I'm sure we can squeeze a couple of security personnel between the paddling pool and the paint tins.

There will be no problem with privacy either. We've got a rickety six-foot fence around the back garden, which is only overlooked on three sides, and a small hedge at the front that is prickly enough to keep the paparazzi at bay for at least 27 seconds.

But even if the photographers manage to break through our high-tech security cordon, I'm confident they won't get a decent shot of the Beckhams doing whatever it is they do behind closed doors (plaiting each other's hair, or giving one another badly spelled tattoos perhaps?).

My windows are so dirty that no one in the pictures would be visible to the human eye. You would need some of that top-of-the-range, non-existent computer gadgetry they use on CSI to make any sense of what you were seeing. You know the sort of thing I mean: a blurred, bloodied, torn, burnt photograph that has been discovered in the nostril of a corpse buried in the Nevada desert for 30 years becomes crystal clear at the click of a mouse.

But I digress. Once the Beckhams have settled in and had a bite to eat - I'm thinking spaghetti hoops on toast and butterscotch Angel Delight - the boys can hit the back garden and the girls can hit the shops.

Becks will no doubt be overwhelmed by the facilities we offer in terms of football training. We have a quarter-sized goal (just the one), complete with netting just wide enough for the cats to occasionally get their heads stuck in, and six balls of various colours and degrees of deflation.

And Posh will be simply aghast when she clocks our local shops. Not only have we got a Spar (gasp), but we've also got a bakery, a butcher, a post office, a tool hire shop, a hairdressers, a card shop and a place that sells stuff that only grandmas buy, such as rollers and novelty soaps in the shape of lesser-known members of the Royal family.

It will be perfect. We'll have a great time at the races, we'll have a kickabout in the garden, we'll do a bit of shopping and, to top it all off, we might even treat them to a curry at the Viceroy (no pickle tray - we're not made of money).

I'll just text Becks and see what he fancies: lamb passanda or a hot and spicy **** with a side order of ******.

Updated: 09:52 Monday, May 03, 2004