There are a lot of things I love about Britain. Some of them are a surprise even to me. I remember returning from work trips to California, Arizona, and southern Italy, a year or so ago and being overwhelmed, by comparison, with the green soft beauty of this country’s landscape.

One thing I hate about Britain is its drinking “culture”. Strangely enough, yesterday evening I did exactly what this article about that problem suggests and walked around the centre of town—I visited Cambridge’s wonderful Borders “hyper-bookshop” which, amazingly, stays open until 10 o’clock on a Friday night.

On my way home, the zoo animals were just beginning to get lively. Gel-crested males were puffing out their striped chests. Female tits were on display. The air was full of the promise of clumsy violence and bad sex.

Women of England, lament not the death of Romance! ‘Twas at your hands she died. You have taught all Englishmen that the surest way to win your favours is to grope you when you are drunk. Why bother with flowers when a few doses of the latest alcopop will do the job just fine? This month saw the release of a new one called, with disarming directness, Shag.