Obviously Brian Cox is under employed and nobody around to tickle his ego.
When I was a baby we lived in a wee cottage on a cliff overlooking the Moray Firth.
My father was teaching Charles (yer, that Charles) Chemistry, and Mummy came up to visit.
Anyway Mummy and a load of flunkies came up to our garden to watch the 'Royal' yacht Britannia pass by.
Mummy was the only person accorded the honour of one of our kitchen chairs.
My mother was holding me as she stood next to all the flunkies when she realised she'd left the gas stove on,
so she plonked me on the lap of the only other mother there and ran back to the house to turn the stove off.
Needless to say, my s*x life has been warped and blighted by the fact that my bum was in contact with the 'Royal'
lap for about 15 minutes when I was small and vulnerable . . . .
. . . anyone, with a bit of thought, can cook up some utter, utter psycho-Freudian nonsense like that
if they really want to . . .
But; here's a thought: why not go and make yourself useful somewhere instead and stop being so bloody wet?
Touched by Princess Margaret: I mean, jeepers; so fekking what?
When I was about 10 a friend of my Mum came round for coffee and she patted me on the knee . . .
. . . been having spontaneous orgas%$#@&*s about it ever since!