Being a boy unparalleled in barbarity and philistinism, it wasn't until I reached the tender age of 18 that I suddenly realised I'd never actually got around to reading "Wuthering Heights", and that something should be done to remedy this. A brief barter with the staff of Waterstones later, and there I was, trotting home with a copy of a novel which would have cost me a whole ONE POUND-FIFTY less had I bothered to go to Border's first. There's a message for us all there, I think.

However. For all the poetic instinctiveness and disregard for convention which the back cover promised I would find within, I found myself completely incapable of taking the novel's main character seriously, for two reasons. The first was the remembrance of Cliff Richard with mutton-chops and a Yorkshire accent: the second, and far more relevant, was the cartoon of my childhood, Heathcliff.

Heathcliff was a rather tubby orange-and-black cat, who spent most of the cartoon dishing out uncalled for wise-cracks at the expense of his foolish companions. Sounds familiar? Unfortunately, it was nothing more than a sad and hollow sham of an excuse of a rip-off, and had next to nothing going for it. Except for ONE thing alone: but that one thing was enough to elevate it to the realms of cartoon Nirvana. Heathcliff had a theme tune which, quite frankly, was so addictive that it became IMPOSSIBLE not to sit through the whole cartoon just for another 70 seconds of pure joy. And if you do NOTHING else today, I URGE you to download and listen to it. And if you can ever read "Wuthering Heights" again without hearing 'Heathcliff, Heathcliff, No-one shou-uld/Terrify the neighbourhood!" ringing in your ears at every other page, I thoroughly advise you never to have children of your own.