After contemplating yet another perfectly cooked kipper on a dreary morning holidaying in a Scottish lochside hotel, I can sympathise with John Prescott's reluctance to resign.
There is little argument that Prescott in office as Deputy Prime Minister is an affront to decency. Taking a drink from an American billionaire seeking to build a casino in Greenwich may be what takes him to the execution block and the axe.
But his grubby sexual advances to a member of his staff, his arrogance in failing to pay his council tax on freebie homes and his serial Ministerial incompetence left him in the holding cell long ago.
A long-standing ally of Prescott told me that, some years ago, there was an attempt to interest the politician in the game of golf. One would have thought that, for an Olympian of the croquet lawns, this panacea to the post-work boredom suffered by many formerly powerful men would be the ideal pastime.
It would have, perhaps, calmed a clearly troubled soul and been a perfect release for the energies that we later learned were let loose on Tracey Temple. But it was not to be. There was much thrashing about and sweaty bursts of energy, but golf was not for Prescott.
