So, let’s say you’re sitting on the couch with your latest gun bunny snuggled up beside you, her firm and lovely breasts pressing into your chest and her head and hair resting under your chin.

Pictured: Every man’s favourite gun bunny

You’re watching a particularly fine old-school film- let’s say, Dirty Harry– in which men are men and go around getting shit done instead of acting like a bunch of emotionally incontinent babies who just soiled their nappies.

You’ve got a glass of exquisite 20-year-old Macallan single-malt sitting on the coffee table in front of you. (Neat, of course. No man in his right mind dilutes really good single malt, except for a tiny sliver of ice designed to volatise the spirits.)

Your lady is… shall we say, showing distinct signs that she is very much enjoying the “toxic masculinity” on display. The probability of a “happy ending” to the evening, if not necessarily the movie, appears to be very high indeed.

All in all, life is pretty damn good.

Suddenly, the lights go out and you hear ominous string music playing in the background. The sound of a rusty blade scraping along the ground reaches your ears. A man’s laboured, rasping breathing fills the silent air.

You know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you’re in the middle of your very own horror movie.

How do you react?

If you’re anything like Mat Best, you know the answer:

Now obviously, I’m not saying you should drink and shoot at the range. But in your own home, any uninvited guest deserves to die from acute lead poisoning.