Oh, no doubt: back in my student days, I should likely have found this great fun. Bloody damned Aurelius Augustine would have been game for it too, in his lecherous heyday. Had he thought of it, I’d have been slung over his shoulder and off to some suitably appointed den for a pastoral ravishing, rich olive oil and rough red wine for all, and much of it ending up in places no good Levantine olive would recognise. In fact, come to that, I’m fairly sure he did think of it—if it was Augustine, and not one of those predecessors whose existence he so greatly resented.