As most of you will know, the Ramayana describes the human body as being the receptacle of flesh, blood, bile, urine, faeces, sweat and phlegm. Those lusting after the curvy or dangly bits of other human beings would do well to remember this. And this is not what the saints and sages mean when they tell us that what we are looking for is within.
This week I have had a reminder of how delicate the metabolism is. In short, I have been ill. As far as I know, nothing other than a common virus of some sort, but it laid me low and incapable of pursuing most avenues of sensual enjoyment. For those of you wishing to know lurid details of bodily functions, then I can hand that responsibility over to Dan, who is the world’s foremost poet of the scatological.

This is particularly unfortunate, when I have had so many nice visitors here, thanks to my new friend Patroclus, and that old harridan Zoe, who both obviously felt that their readers were in need of an emetic, and pointed them in this direction.
I seemed to recall (but had to verify it) that Patroclus was a mate of Achilles, but don’t know, and couldn’t be bothered to find out any more. Honestly, these people who assume identities using names or phrases from dead languages.

May I recommend the excellent televisual entertainment “Everyone Hates Chris”? I suspect that readers in New Zealand will probably have to tell their grandchildren to look out for it, unless everyone over there already has the altar to Mr Murdoch nailed to the side of the house as we do in the UK. What I do not really understand is why, in general, American comedies manage to find excellent child actors whereas in the UK there is a total lack. I would put forward Malcolm in the Middle, Home Improvement, and the excellent Angus T Jones in Two and a Half Men as evidence of my argument. On the other hand, I don’t know whether to blame the directors, script writers or actors in the Harry Potter films for the sickening performances. I was cheering for Voldemort.

Someone came here by searching for the “rudest man in Britain”. I came in third after David Starkey and a bouncer from a Soho nightclub. To say that I was disappointed was an understatement. I expect loyalty from my dear friends, the Googles. Next time I see Theodore I shall waste no time in telling him what a fatuous, camel-dung chewing, uncle-buggering, conservative-voting, odious little git he is.