It appears the strain of producing 70 books in three months and the Jack Nicklaus issue have got me. I woke up about every hour last night, the last time being after a dreadful nightmare.

I was Winston Smith, watching the evening’s two-minute hate on the telescreen. An enemy of the people had been discovered and was crawling away from police beating him in the studio. The commentator capped his peroration of hate by kicking the EOTP in his bruised and bleeding backside … it gets worse but I’ll stop there because I don’t want to think about it any more.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m a smelly old fart!