Recently I’ve had an outbreak of spots on my back and chest. A cursory glance at my upper torso would leave one with the impression I had been blessed with more than the standard issue two nipples. But despite what it may look like I don’t have any supernumerary nipples. I am not, like infamous Bond villain Scaramanga, the possessor of a thripple – or third nipple. What I do have is some very red, very angry looking spots. And when I say angry, I mean ruddy livid. These zits are the acne equivalent of Michael Douglas in Falling Down. They're just waiting to explode. They stretch across my shoulders like a range of miniature volcanoes threatening to erupt. They’re so big you can feel them through a shirt and jumper. For any Braille readers out there, my body is probably quite a good read. If you joined them up dot-to-dot style I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it didn’t make a picture. A galloping horse, maybe, or a tractor perhaps. No, they’re just plain old spots – ugly, sometimes painful, pus-filled pimples. Something else to file away in the box called ‘side effects of ulcerative colitis drugs’. Not that I wish to whine, but it could have some relevance to UC and therefore this blog. And anyway, in writing the brilliant Ham on Rye,Charles Bukowski managed to squeeze half a novel out of his chronic acne, the least I can do is bash out a couple of hundred words on mine.