My chaplain is ready. There he sits on his quilted stool, his little warm bum protected by a cushion, quill in hand, ready to shudder with delicious horror at my shocking past. He tut-tuts as I drink my wine. One glass a day, that's what the little sod of a doctor ordered, but it's not yet noon and time for the Angelus bell and I have already downed six full cups of blood red claret. But what do doctors know? No physician can ever be successful. If he was, his patients would never die. I have known many a hearty fellow who thoroughly enjoyed life and the most robust health until he fell into the hands of physicians with their secret chants, newt-skin medicine, horoscope charts and urine jars. Last week the mealy-mouthed hypocrite who proclaims he looks after my health came scuttling in to examine my urine so I filled the jar full of cat's piss. The idiot stood there, holding the jar against the light, before solemnly declaring that I should eat more fish and drink less claret. Good Lord, I nearly died laughing! Mind you, doctors are not all bad. If you want a real bastard, hire a lawyer. One of these imps of Satan came up from the Middle Temple offering to write out an inventory of my goods so I could make a will. 'After all,' he commented, looking slyly at me, 'you have so many offspring.' I asked the bastard what he meant? He replied with a knowing leer how many of the young men and women in the surrounding villages bear more than a passing resemblance to my goodself. My little fart of a chaplain nods, but I am not ashamed. I have, in many ways, been a true father to my people. Anyway, back to the lawyer! I soon wiped the grin off his silly face when I asked him if he was a good runner. 'Swift as a hare,' he declared.