In my previous post, I stated that it was neither big nor clever for public figures to indulge in fisticuffs and immorality. On reflection, I realise that my statement was incorrect, and that shagging and fighting are, in fact, the very essence of wit.
I say this because I'm watching The Greatest Britons 2007 on ITV, a witless cavalcade of drooling idol worship and celebrity fluffing. A more obsequious meeting of D-List lips and A-List anus couldn't be imagined.
The line-up of Britons saluted for their Greatness ranges from Aren't they dead yet? (McCartney, Thatcher) to If that fucker comes near me, he will be dead (Simon Cowell, Gordon Ramsey) and ends at They might as well be dead for all I care (Banksy, Simon Fuller).
And, just to show that they're not a grindingly predictable shower of forelock-tugging couch-monkeys, the British public have pronounced The Queen the Greatest Living Briton.
Jesus Christ, this brand of chewing gum TV makes me want to throw myself to the ground and begin viciously headbutting the pavement, not stopping until I bash myself brainless or I feel the warmth of Australian sunshine.*
In all this though, we're missing a real candidate for greatness - a stalwart Brit from humble beginnings who rose to become one of the nation's best-loved leaders. A man who has faced adversity and public scorn, yet has emerged unbowed and triumphant.
I speak, of course, of John Prescott, the Deputy Prime Minister, sadly soon to leave office.
You may laugh, but in his all-too-brief time in the public eye, Prescott has beaten up a protestor, boned his secretary and probably got up to some socialism when he was able to find the time - a record of which any Parliamentarian could be proud.
Some humourless types might say that, as a senior politician, he has been somewhat rubbish, but I defy them to name another member of the cabinet who has provided the nation with such entertainment.
Compare him to his possible competitors from tonight's show...
Robbie Williams, a prancing sack of mum-rock and self-pity - Baroness Thatcher, a rattling, ambulatory skeleton held together by malice and Milton Friedman, and the Queen, a granite-faced crone who would be trounced by one of her Corgis in a charisma contest.
God help us if these charmless misery-fountains are representative of British society - give me a boozing, blundering oaf as our representative on the world stage any day, at least there's a chance he'd stand his round.
In light of this, I defy any of you to deny Prescott the prize that is rightfully his. I salute you John, he of the broad waistband, short-temper and downwardly-mobile trousers.
We shall not see your like again in our lifetimes.
*Although it's only fair to point out that there are similarities between the two outcomes.