I’m used to doing daft things for my art but I have to admit I was filled with fear when the Daily Mirror asked me if I’d take part in an international conker championship.

Although I have collected conkers in recent years - to sprinkle around the house to ward off spiders - I was probably about 12 when I last played the actual game.

To make matters worse my plans to compete with some extra-strong varnish-coated conkers were instantly thwarted by news reports prior to the tournament. Apparently all competitors would be frisked and supplied with DNA tested conkers. Good Lord.

So here’s how I got on…

For a grand sounding event like the Poulton International Open Conker Championships I’m expecting lights, cameras and action - so it is with some bemusement I find myself crossing a dark country lane to a modest village hall in sleepy Gloucestershire.

At the door spoilsport organiser Phil Heneghan is handing out hand-picked conkers authenticated with invisible ink. At the other end of the hall is a Conkers Test Station – a table containing an ultra-violet generator. It transpires that any specimen that fails to shine under the detector’s glare will be subjected to a highly scientific stress test - a steel mallet crushing it to smithereens. Then the offending conker bounder will be hounded out of the village and banned for life. Blimey.

The snug hall is crammed full of at least 45 competitors – men, women and children, all gleefully warming up with practise swings. I’m upset to discover that most of the teams - with names like Wonky Conky and Bonker Conker -  already have their five aside. No one wants ME for their team. It’s like being back in PE lessons at school where I was always the last to be picked thanks to my rubbish hand-to-eye co-ordination and gammy knees.

At last an unwitting gang agreed to let me join.

“We’re called Fathers’ Nuts,” the team captain Paul tells me proudly. Oh.

The ‘Nuts’ boys come from an exotic sounding place called Ampney Crucis. “Have you travelled far?” I enquire.

“Yes, from the next village,” comes the reply.

Actually I’m beginning to wonder just how ‘international’ this competition is. There’s a teenager wearing a Japanese flag but he sounds suspiciously like he’s from Gloucestershire to me. There is a Norwegian chap and a couple of American ladies but that’s where the international element ends.

The first teams take to the floor. Suddenly conkers are bouncing under my heels and there are cries of despair as shrapnel flies around. Fathers’ Nuts have a team talk: “Who knows the best way to play?” I ask. Silence.

“We could try soaking our conkers in that scrumpy cloudy cider instead of vinegar?” a rebellious member of our gang suggests. Paul looks horrified. “No, if we do that and win, Charlotte will write about it and we’ll lose our crown!” Some people, so square.

So off I go in search of guidance. Someone points me in the direction of a man called Mike. He is wearing a fetching green sweater and has an air of authority. He appears to be the Len Goodman of the conker world.

“So what tips can you give me?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “Well,” he says. “The real secret is to let them hit you. That way they’ll do more damage to their own conker.” Aha!

I return to my team triumphant.

But before we can talk strategies any further we’re called for our game against a bunch of girls. This is going to be easy. We face Maggie, Sue, Linda, Eleanor and Cathy from Crackin’ Little Conkers.

The referee is a stern looking man called David, a district councillor taking his role veeery seriously. “Do you know the rules?” he bellows. “I will toss a coin and either captain has choice to call, the winning captain chooses to hit or hold the first series of strikes.” Ooh err.

The Father’s Nuts lose the toss and we’re first to strike. I deliberately hit my housewife opponent Linda’s conker with three pathetic taps to avoid shattering my arsenal. Problem is, when it’s her turn, I suspect she’s doing the same. These conkers will be sprouting before we crack them. Twenty minutes later we’re still there back and forth tapping each other’s conkers with all the force of a wet lettuce. Conkers is not a fast-paced sport.

Meanwhile my team mate Andrew is first to fall having lost his conker to Sue. “For a little lady she was a big hitter,” he says meekly.

Next Pete is thwarted by Maggie. With everything to play for, Paul, Daniel and myself battle on. I attempt to distract Linda with small talk but she’s having none of it. Then her teenage son appears behind her, whispering in her ear. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” I scowl.

Bored of playing the safe game I start giving it some welly, willing Linda’s conker to break. Then disaster! As if in slow motion I see Paul’s conker flying through the air, its creamy yellow flesh exposed and sealing our defeat. With three wins out of five the Crackin’ Little Conkers are triumphant. The Fathers’ Nuts are completely deflated and we’re out the competition. With heavy hearts we make our way to the bar to drown our sorrows with plastic cups of King Real Ale.

In the final it’s over swiftly with a team called the Conkering Butts claiming victory and scooping the coveted title of Poulton International Open Champions.

“Tonight has been all open and above board,” claims Phil happily. “These people have played a straight game and it just goes to show that cheats never prosper.” I nod enthusiastically, thinking wistfully back to my varnish-coated conkers.

I really should have smuggled them in my bra…