Lordy me, it feels like ages since Owen graced us with his presence. And what presence they are: a find set of manly shoulders, a confident and powerful swagger and nipples you just can’t ignore. He strikes a fine figure as he battles against the elements, striving through wind and rain and trapped wind to a goal we can only just dream of. As long as we’re sitting down with some sort of pie on a tray in front of us.

Then there is Jonathan, like a lithe stickleback. See him, see him grin inanely like an upset welshman with a god complex. He can touch stuff and it works again. He can imagine stuff you can’t. He can plead ignorance and be ignored equally, within a twenty-four hour period. It is only aspiration to be like him that even bother to get up in the morning and heartily prevent ourselves from poking ourselves in the eyes with forks. Or in the foreheads.

You could listen to this if you like. It might make you a better person. It might just ruin your appetite. It might do both.