Next time you see him in watchful or reflective pose you'll see that he invariably has his right hand hooked round his nose, with the thumb evidently scratching its right side. That's simply to disguise the fact that he's taking a deep draw on his forefinger, which is tucked underneath both nostrils. Don't believe me? Watch.

The smell of the forefinger is the essence of self. When it sheds the memory of last night's curry and can no longer recall the intimacy of past relationships it will do what it's designed to do. It is our primal reference point, our olfactory root. Try it. Think of what you've been doing with it. Body fluid - it smells of body fluid - am I right, or am I right? Unless you've just washed your hands in carbolic soap - and this won't last long either - what your forefinger whiffs of is you.

It's understandable that Graham is animated and wants to jump around a bit. He's an excitable sort of man - we like him for that. But he's at his best when he wipes the grease from his forehead, scratches his face and runs him forefinger through his hair - in other word collects some decent body fluid - and then cups his hand around his schnozzle and draws deeply on it. (I feel ill - Ed.) It's a reassuring and comforting smell of self and it's my theory that the most successful people are those who, in adversity, can pull on the primal security that only the smell of forefinger offers. The way to deal with setbacks is not to retreat to one's psychological lair in order to lick wounds - though there are strong primal parallels, I allow - but to hunch your back, tilt your head forward a little, screw up your eyes, grimace a little and dig that funky digit.

I hope Graham reads this, and am certain that if he does, and that if he follows my advice, we'll be OK. Graham - smell that forefinger, and smell it now!