Katy raises some important philosophical points on her blog. And speaking of points… can I see yours please?

When I was 14 the single most important thing in the known universe was putting my hand on a breast. I hadn’t done it, but I knew I wanted to, and it obsessed me.

Now I’m 41, and the only thing that’s changed about me is the order in which the numbers 1 and 4 appear. Boobs still fascinate. I accept that it’s stupid, and that men are simple creatures, but there you have it.

Favourite joke.

Man: Can I weigh your boobs?

Woman: If you must.

Man: (grabs boobs) “Waaaaaaaaay”.

Women, I think, have a more sophisticated set of things which appeal to them. I recently read that a man’s forearm is a lovely thing, which was news to me, and pleasing because – unlike, say, a huge cock – I actually have forearms, so might be in with a chance. And I’ve known for a while that shoulders are good. You can touch a man’s arms or shoulders in public, on a date, or even in a business meeting while shaking his hand, and nobody would say a word.

But one handful of mamm, and a vintage “ar-ooo-ga” car-horn noise, and suddenly you’re in a tribunal… where’s the justice?

If I woke tomorrow morning and found I’d grown breasts, I’d stay in bed playing with them and do nothing else until the smell of my rotting corpse made the neighbours raise concerns with the police. And I’d die a happy man. Ladies don’t fully understand the power of their physique.

And it doesn’t have to be a huge pair of perfect pornstar globes. Tiny mounds, mid-range hillocks, bouncesome bazungas, they’re all good. Small hard nipples are my personal favourites, but that’s like choosing your favourite way of killing Simon Cowell – they all do the job, so bring it on. Large pale ones. Pink, brown, pierced, everything works a treat. Just let me do that thing to them. You know what thing, don’t make me type it.

I draw the line at grotesque fakes, or the kind of fleshy roll that is indistinguishable from the fleshy roll of the belly that is usually below it. Michelle McManus, as Katy mentioned, is not high on my list of mammarian manupulation. Sorry Michelle, I’m sure you’re heartbroken.

So I am, as most men are, in love with your funbags. And, in case they’re feeling left out, with your buttocks too.

But for the life of me, I can’t see the appeal of many of these Urban Dictionary claims (see Katy’s blog). Does anybody really – really – play testicle-tennis with your norks and your chin? I can’t see what you’d get out of it, and I can’t see what I’d get out of it either. Sounds like guff to me, and when it comes to guff I’m a man who knows a thing or two. You wouldn’t believe how much of it I’d say in order to have a little squeeze of your chesticles!