More of that Joycean toilet humour.

Sometimes I wish I'd made it past page thirty-something of Ulysses, or whatever my personal best was at the third or fourth attempt before I gave up, having inherited my dad's likewise unfinished copy.

The description of the bathing waters off Dublin as the "snot-green, scrotum-tightening sea" is magnificent. I'm sure there are plenty more nuggets like that in there. But it's a hell of a lot of mountainside to hack through and pan for the gold.