Mrs Steve and I had a month-long summer holiday in south-west Ireland in 1977. By the end of the holiday I was sporting 35 ticks in various stages of swollenness. Their favoured locations were any part of me that had bits of thinner crumpled skin. Inside elbows, backs of knees, armpits and, especially, the family jewels department were all highly regarded. The advice in those days was the cigarette treatment. All I can say is that if you are up for the prolonged holding of a glowing fag end two millimetres from your scrotal/underwilly zone, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.