It’s what major-league tossers say, isn’t it? Blokes out on the sniff, stinking of Paco Rabanne and coming on to any group of women in a bar or wherever, on the off-chance there might just be one who’s thirsty/short-sighted/desperate enough to let some stubbly bellend buy her a drink. It might well be the kind of thing Andy’s taken to saying, now he’s single again. To be honest, it might be the kind of cheesy crap my ex always trotted out. We weren’t really together long enough for me to get to know him all that well. Oh, I certainly found out enough, though, and before you say anything, I don’t need reminding that he probably thinks exactly the same thing. That he’s well shot of a mentalist like me, that he had a narrow escape and was lucky he discovered what I was really like when he did.

Fractured skull notwithstanding.

What am I really like, though? Well, that’s the $64,000 question . . .

Was I me when I was making an honest living, doing my best to catch rapists and killers? Or was I only the real me once I became ‘unwell’ and started to see just how evil so-called innocent people can be? What the ordinary punters we think of as good and kind are actually capable of? The dark desires and the secret schemes and the deals they make with the devil (figuratively speaking; I was never that far gone) . . .

It’s a tricky one, you can’t deny that, surely.

Are you . . . you when you’re stone cold sober or does the real you only come out to play after you’ve had a few? Maybe you should think about that for a while before you judge me, or anyone else who’s sitting where I am for that matter. All I’m saying.

Talking of which . . . hello, ladies!

To be fair, I think most of this lot would let you buy them a drink, and I dare say one or two would happily shag you if there was a bag of crisps thrown in, but you need to bear in mind that a lack of self-esteem is a major issue in here.

So, take a bow, my bitches.