Shakespeare ran a finger inside his sheer linen collar. “It’s fucking roasting here, Toady.”

Toadfish looked at him with contempt. “Why do you dress like that? You look like a gay.”

“Why do you dress like that, you fucking chump. Who do you think you are, standing there in your shorts and T-shirt handing out style advice like you’re the king of fashion.”

“Why do you always do this?” said Toady. “We’re standing here in the shadow of one of man’s finest architectural achievements, but you can’t concentrate on its splendour because you’re too hot and you’re pissed off as a consequence.”

“Is it my fault it’s a million fucking degrees?” screamed Shakespeare, lifting his breeches slightly to pull at the stockings clinging to his thighs.

“No, it’s not, but it’s your fault you’re dressed like a prize tit,” said Toady. “This in front of us is the culmination of the development of the Doric order, but all I’m getting is ear ache.”

“Ear ache this!” said Shakespeare thrusting his middle finger into Toady’s face. “Greece has been shit since we got here, all because of you. This is a weak holiday, man. Weak!”