Fake breasts seemed like just the very best idea in the world – they allowed each man to have their dream woman (in cosmetic terms), they allowed every woman to have the body that, if not they, then their loved ones and future loved ones, wanted.

And I’m cautious to express my opinion that they’re just anti-gravity bags of senselessness.

It may well be that this is the very bravest thing I’ve ever written and I’m preparing for an onslaught of ladies who will be angry at me for stating my opinion that many have defaced their bodies.

Enabling a pneumatic figure on any woman is what men appear to have wolfwhistled and cat-called for since they came out of their caves in loincloths and thought that a woman could look better if all bumps were a little more exaggerated.

However, every time I have spent any intimate time with a woman who I’ve deemed pretty fabulous, and she’s taken off her clothes and I’ve noticed two scars behind her breasts, a sadness has dawned as I’ve realise that someone has felt it necessary to take a surgeon’s knife to their most feminine of assets.

Often it’s because they’ve not thought themselves attractive enough.

What media and men have convinced women is that it’s not their inner beauty that we find attractive, it’s their lumps and bumps.

And it’s just not true – we’re actually a little more intelligent than that, although it’s controversial to suggest it.

Admittedly there are many good reasons for undertaking cosmetic surgery, all I’m covering here are those ladies who choose to go under the knife for reasons of vanity alone.

Please don’t do it. If you’ve already done it for cosmetic reasons, then I apologise from the male world and from the god-awful, air-brushed, misguided media world if they, we, made you think it would solve any issues of self-confidence that you may have hitherto endured.

Women could be forgiven for thinking that men are only interested in the opposite sex for their curves.

I know full well, even walking around Oxford, that if I see a woman who has what is deemed to be the attractive proportion of these, dressed well, then without fail, I’ll find myself chancing an extended glance.

But I’m picky enough in my selection of partners that actually how a woman looks only comprises a small, very initial degree of what I find attractive in someone.

We appear to live in an age where fakery, ink and augmentation are commonplace, and I wish people would just leave things alone as nature intended. Knowing that on the dating scene anyone you encounter could have fake eyelashes, head to toe join-the-dot tattoos, enhanced bum, plumped lips and fake breasts, takes a degree of excitement out of the whole process. It’s sad that the path to a modern-day partner-ship is plastered with false advertising. Imagine, if you will, the scene of a male equivalent; man gets you to the boudoir, removes the final three inches of his sausage, takes off his toupee and dunks his false teeth into a cup. I’d challenge you not to struggle to find the situation as attractive.

I’d be delighted with a partner of any shape, as long as she could stand naked and be proud of what she saw.

 

I’m on a train, heading north to Liverpool and I’ve never been to the City of Song before, in fact I’m not even sure if they call it the City of Song but if they haven’t I’ll gift them that moniker for free.

I’ve never seen where Fred the Weatherman used to jump around his map each morning, while us students wished him to fall in, and I’ve never seen any places associated with Beatlemania but I’ve got a stove to collect for my narrowboat Nina and I’m like a kid approaching a sweet shop.

Even the airport is called ‘John Lennon airport’ – they’re still living the Beatles age.

On Nina, I’ve got a generator and a cracking heating system but when you work in the hospitality industry and don’t get home before 11pm each night, it’s not all that respectful or neighbourly to crank up engines just to ensure you’re warm in bed. So, as the temperatures plummet beneath zero, I’ve invested in a diesel stove that should tick over all day, ensuring that when I arrive home, it’s snugly warm.

Unlike houses, this small metal tube doesn’t take much heating and, I’m surprised to say, she doesn’t feel damp. But when it’s cold, it’s not a pleasant experience.

So, this Morso stove has been hunted down on ebay and requires collection from Liverpool docks.

My father’s meeting me there, and we’re having a boy’s day out – he was actually born there, so it’s tinged with a significance that I’m looking forward to.

We have too few father-son days out to celebrate, so it’s always worth making the effort, particularly where the event allows me the prospect of a little warmth.

It dawned on me that while I spend most of my time in this column trying to persuade people to go out and enjoy what Oxford has to offer, I’m so busy here myself that I rarely get out of town.

So this is a small indulgence for me and, while I write, the landscape of acres of pasture and massive Victorian buildings where industry used to resound beside the tracks as we dart north makes you very aware of what a spectacularly industrious place Great Britain used to be. Very different from today, no less fabulous but certainly more productive. North of Birmingham, the country is a maze of canals and fabulous bridges, just waiting to be explored and I intend to spend next spring and summer doing just that.

I travelled much of the world when I was an officer in the Navy but I’m more excited about seeing this country under my own steam than the majority of travels I’ve experienced thus far. Instead of seeing them darting past from a train, Nina will allow me a much more leisurely pace.

I just need to ensure I’m warm for a few months of winter before then.