I don’t give myself airs: I know I don’t have a great intellect. I don’t know any languages, I don’t know the dates of battles or kings and queens. My technical knowledge extends to changing the oil in my car. I can’t sing. I can’t dance. Eminence at my golf club has eluded me, but… but I always thought I had some smarts, something, a little fox in the box. And of course the question that comes to mind as you return once more to your sweaty mattress in a shitty bedsit, is if you’re so clever, how come you’ve ended up here partnering His Puceness?