During "Rome" last night, Legionary Pullo cuts his way into a tent and kicks f*ck out of a couple of guards in front of 2 Egyptian wenches, thereby rescuing them from imminent death. As he finishes filleting an unfortunate Nubian with his pugio he looks up, covered in sweat, blood and stubble, clocks the 2 birds and says "Hello ladies". In a Geordie accent. At this point Mrs P, with whom (grammar) I am sharing the sofa, squeals like a spit-roasted starlet and has to wring fluid out of her socks. There is not even the slightest pretence that the idea of a big sweaty bloke covered in another man's blood kicking her back doors in might be a bit much. Fair enough, she readily admits to being as shallow as a foreign student's shell scrape where men are concerned. Personally, however, I suspect all women secretly harbour similar views. Am I wrong? And would it be wrong to disembowel some geezer in my kitchen in the hope of getting my brown wings?