KEITH FLOYD is about to dine in his arch rival’s establishment. He thinks that eating, drinking and sex go together. But he’d like the sex first, he announces loudly to the genteel clientele talking in whispers as they do in nice country hotels.

We’re in Gidleigh Park, Devon, an impeccable hotel set in Dartmoor National Park and a contrast to Floyd’s humble pub. Floyd hasn’t eaten here for four years – his protest vote at the no smoking rule in the dining room.

Gidleigh Park is a 1920s timbered house in a spectacular location with croquet, rows of size 38 green wellies in the hall and staff who plump the cushions and offer a little quelque chose (like a monkfish and potato canape) before you can say parfait.

Getting starrish Floyd here has been a pain. He insisted that I fetch him (a round trip of four hours) or send a taxi. He charges £6,000 for a personal appearance, so I suppose I’ve got off lightly with an £80 taxi bill. He’s been trying to cancel me all day. ‘I don’t go out at night,’ he says in smoky, thespian voice. ‘I can’t stand it.’

He looks spruce in Rolex, bow tie and polka-dot scarf. Thirteen books and nine TV series down, he’s currently being made into a Madame Tussaud’s model, writing his autobiography (possible title, Floyd Still in the Soup?) and Floyd in Italy and appearing in pasta commercials in Australia. There are Floydie fans hanging round his pub and women who send him faxes of themselves scantily clad. (He used to call them up when he was drunk at midnight and they’d say ‘How dare you, just because you’re on television!’) He signs 50 autographs a day and finds it hard to step out without housewives pestering him with their recipes. Fortunately, this evening, only one person approaches: a waitress to take our order.

There’s widgeon on the menu. But Floyd doesn’t order it. Then he turns to the wine list. ‘Very dangerous. You’re paying.’ He claims that his alcohol intake seen on television is the result of weeks of film being edited down. He chooses the Clos de la Vigne au Saint, a snip at £40.

He eats like a widgeon and smokes for Devon, so today, he says, has been like waiting to go to hospital for a barium meal: he’s taken nil by mouth. ‘I dread coming to places like this. You’re not allowed to smoke with your meal so I’ve bought my own…’ and, hilariously, he produces a cheapo ashtray out of his pocket.

He is exceedingly good company. In the dining room, where David Bowie, Ted Hughes and David Gower have all eaten, he talks about Joseph Conrad, pirates and his life. He thinks eating alone is one of the world’s nicest treats. Then he can indulge his sexual fantasies and only pay for one person. How would he fantasise about the women in this dining room? ‘Hungerford ’89,’ he says, choking with laughter. He then pulls out his ashtray, props it on the windowsill and starts to smoke. Does he do it to shock? ‘I don’t do anything to shock. I’m a smoker, I can’t stop.’ HE HAD a call recently from the Good Baby Breast-feeding in Hotels and Pubs in England Guide, or something like that, to ask whether he approved of breast-feeding in public. ‘I don’t give a toss either way. But people come into my pub and they belch, fart and read the paper. It’s fine if you want a cigarette or decaffeinated tea. People should be able to do what they like.’ Sex on the table? ‘An excellent idea.’

More wine arrives. Floyd becomes gleeful and tells the story of a Qantas air hostess who served him in first class, along with Kylie Minogue, Gough Whitlam and Mrs Murdoch, and told an unrepeatable joke involving parsley and pubic hair.

His woodcock arrives, and he sprinkles it with expletives. He says it should fly through a hot oven and complains that it comes with the same slice of foie gras that accompanied his rabbit ragout which he insists wasn’t a ragout. Anyway, he prefers his with a bit of shot sprinkled on the side of the plate.

He indulges in a spot of culinary espionage for the chef in his restaurant, who worked in Gidleigh before he was sacked. ‘I’m a food anarchist. I’m there to sabotage the great culinary skills these people have learned from the master chefs.” He lights up another cigarette. We haven’t yet finished our main courses. ‘We’re not attending a f***ing religious ceremony,’ he explains. ‘We’re having fun here.’

A terrified maitre d’ approaches and whispers solicitously: ‘I’m terribly sorry sir, we don’t allow smoking in the dining room.’

Floyd erupts. ‘I shall get my taxi and go home,’ he says, angrily. ‘You don’t f***ing well tell me not to smoke. I was doing it discreetly. Nobody was sitting next to me. If I were paying for this…which planet are we on?‘ And he storms out.

‘Quite right, too, it affects the taste of the food,’ says one table, sniffily. And the other diners say they’re going to complain about his language.