Madoff/Clegg/Cameron/Brown - spot the difference.

I like to try out supermarket own-brands. Often, it's once. The own-brand bread is universally pretty bad but if you toast it, it'll do. If you want to eat it as bread, buy the good stuff. It's much better.

There was once a can of curry sauce on sale for 8p, and I'm talking last week, not last decade. It wasn't very good on its own but as a base sauce for a curry, with some proper Madras mix added, it turned out okay. So I can get the start of a curry for 8p. Hard to beat that.

Some things work on the own-brand scale. I can't tell the difference between Red Bull at a pound a can, or the own-brand versions at four for a pound. Other things don't work. Cheap coffee is just not worth the saving. I'd rather drink it less often than buy the cheap stuff. I probably should drink it less often anyway. Between the espresso and the Red Bull clones, my caffeine intake is likely to be at a level that would turn a doctor pale. Then I'd tell him about the booze and the smoking and he'd probably blow an artery.

Today a box of wine caught my attention. Normally I avoid boxed wines because you can't gauge how much you've had. This was one litre of Spanish red in a box for about £3.50. Well, I thought, give it a go.

It looks okay. It smells and tastes like homebrew rather than anything from a Spanish vineyard. As far as trying out the own-brands goes, this will be a 'once'. I can make wine this bad myself and a lot cheaper too.

I think it might benefit from a visit to the freezer. Worth a try.

It's not true that the more you pay for wine, the better it is. I've had some very nice ones in the £4-£8 price range and been served some very bad ones in the 'HOW much?' price range. It's all about the taste you prefer. If someone wants to educate your palate so you'll appreciate, and then prefer, much more expensive ones, don't let them. It'll cost you more.

Well, the budget approaches, and this boxed homebrew is likely to be all that many of us can afford. We'll be paying more duty to help subsidise the government's own booze habit. Apparently it's only harmful when we drink it. It doesn't harm politicians at all. That's why they take all our money away, to stop us buying it, then buy up lots of the most expensive stuff and drink it. I wouldn't be in the least bit surprised if there was a duty-free cigarette counter in Westminster too.

There's no need for a wine cellar in Westminster at all. I see no need to have one, and I don't see why anyone needs one. If someone wants one and stocks it with their own money, fine, but it's not a necessary thing for a government to make us pay for.

Wine cellars used to be important. Stocks would come over by boat and then be transported by horse and cart, they'd be infrequent so you'd need to buy a stock when it was available. Now we have supermarkets and corner shops and getting hold of a bottle of wine really isn't difficult at all. A child could do it, and often does, and with more success than the adults.

Politicians are trying to make it more difficult for us to get booze. Restricted shop hours, penalties for late-opening pubs, nagging about binge drinking when only a few actually do that and they aren't listening. Meanwhile they use the money they take from us - at a time when the country is in debt up to its eyeballs - not to repay the debt, but to restock their wine cellars. How dare they nag us about drinking? How dare they tell us we are a 'strain on the NHS' because we like a tipple? How dare they allow supermarkets to refuse to sell to a parent if their child is with them because 'they might give it to the child', and all the while use the money they claim they need to take from us to rebuild the country for their own booze shopping?

Labour are already bleating about this but they have no right to speak. They are as guilty of wasting money on such fripperies as any, and they have been doing it for thirteen years whereas the new gang are just getting started.

I'm self-employed which means I don't have a salary income. Some months I make loads, some months nothing. I can't splash out in the good months because I know the bad ones are coming, so I have to even it out. In those bad months, spending is curtailed. Essentials only until the income flows again. The reserve is not for buying steaks and smoked salmon when the income is low, it's there in case of protracted low-earning periods. Then there's the tax, payable in advance, which is actually due at the end of this month. There are definite and expected costs - gas and electricity bill, mortgage, council tax, lab rental and income tax and so on. Then there are unexpected costs - a burst pipe, a broken piece of lab equipment, computer breakage, and so on.

So while I will buy wine and whisky, I am not going to fill a cellar with it when I'm flush with cash because that cash flow is not guaranteed. I certainly wouldn't do it with other people's money. the government thinks their cash flow is guaranteed, that all they have to do is put up duty and we'll keep paying it. People can brew their own booze, they can get booze and tobacco from the EU and more and more are converting diesel-engined cars to run on the waste cooking oil from chip shops. All those activities are directly driven by rising duty. The whole country can see that apart from about 650 cretins who live in a big house, disconnected from the real world.

They jailed Bernie Madoff for taking peoples money, promising to invest it, then spending it on himself.

I would like to ask the current government, and the past one, how his actions are different from theirs? As far as I can see there is only one difference between the government and Bernie Madoff.

He didn't take the money by force.

Entertainment time

I can't see much to gripe about today. Instead I have been wondering about putting all those old short stories into a book and putting out through Lulu.com which costs me nothing and can be a cheap download.

Here's a sample. Unpublished until now. Obviously the published ones are better than this. A bit.

One stop after Marchway

There was only one seat left on the train, and it was opposite a man with a permanent grin. One look at his wild eyes and dishevelled clothes was enough to tell me why the seat was unoccupied. Nevertheless, it was the last seat, and I was tired.

He started as soon as the seat’s material stretched under my weight.

“My name’s Doug.” Hand outstretched, eyes showing too much white, he leaned over the small table.

Across the aisle, four strangers smirked into their newspapers. Through the window, the station slid away. Doug’s hand still reached out, his grin never wavered. He wasn’t going to give up. I took his hand and shook, once, then wiped my hand on my trousers.

“Thomas,” I said. “Tom.” I cursed myself for my familiarity. This was to be a short trip, the last leg of an all-day journey, but it would be interminable if this lunatic hooked me into a conversation.

“Ah, you should never abbreviate your name. Makes it sound like you can’t be bothered with all of it.” Doug placed his hands on the table. I felt a little relief at that. If I could see his hands I knew he had no weapons.

But isn’t Doug short for— I stopped the thought before it emerged as words. I travel often by train, and I’ve met the Train Looney more than once. Every train has one, and Doug was definitely the one for this train. I had sometimes wondered why there was one, and only one, per train. Maybe they had a union. My mind fast-forwarded into the logic-free argument that would ensue if I questioned his statement, so I just smiled a tight smile and watched the backs of houses passing the window.

“Banker?”

I misheard Doug’s question at first and gave him a hard, questioning look. His grin remained plastered across his face. It would have been improved, I thought, if he cleaned his teeth.

“Or lawyer?” Doug nodded at my suit, fresh white shirt and perfectly aligned tie. “Businessman, perhaps?”

“Architect.” I settled back in my seat, resigned now to spend at least part of the journey in conversation with this idiot. Perhaps he would get off the train before I did, though from past experience I knew that to be unlikely. The Train Looney is a fixture. He never gets off. “Rather, I will be. I have a job interview tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Doug tilted his head to one side. “Why are you all dressed up today?”

“This is just the way I dress.” Already, the conversation was starting to grate on my nerves. The human shambles seated opposite was never going to appreciate why I took trouble with my appearance. Explanation was futile, but I felt sure he was going to ask anyway. He didn’t.

“It’s good to meet someone who takes the time to dress properly.”

My eyes threatened to roll. I forced them still, but could not stop one eyebrow rising. Doug noticed. His smile slipped for a moment, and I wondered if things were about to turn unpleasant. Train Loonies are unpredictable creatures. Doug glanced down at himself.

“I’ve been travelling a long time,” he said. “I’m not usually this scruffy.” His smile returned. “Never mind, I’ll soon be home.” The expectant look in his eyes made it clear what my response should be. I held back as long as I could, but I’ve never been able to stare one of these guys down.

“Where’s home?” I wanted to bite my tongue for asking. Doug had won, and the slight widening of his grin showed he knew it. The looney had hooked another conversation.

“One stop after Marchway. What about you? Going home?”

I hesitated before responding. I was going to Marchway. My interview was early tomorrow morning, so I had booked a room at the White Monkey hotel for the night. If someone asked me where I was going, would I have said ‘Marchway’ or ‘one stop after Weston’?

“I’m going to Marchway.” I spoke while my mind tried to make sense of Doug’s statement. “For my interview.” The train slid to a halt. The sign for Weston showed at the window. Only one more stop, then I’d be gone and the madman would have to start again with someone else.

“Your interview is tomorrow. Why go to Marchway today?” Doug’s head tilted to the other side. I wondered if his neck was loose.

“The interview is at nine. The earliest train gets into Marchway at five to nine. That doesn’t give me time to find out where the office is, so I’m staying overnight.” I explained all this in a slow, patient tone. I didn’t want to repeat it.

“Good idea.” Doug nodded with such enthusiasm I pressed myself back into my seat. His head blurred with the speed of its movement until I honestly thought it would come off. He stopped with an abruptness that startled me, then said something that startled me even more.

“Your surname starts with H.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Doug’s eyes transfixed me. I could not look away from the abyss behind them, the blank, empty darkness where thoughts jostled in random patterns.

“Howarth.” I breathed the word.

“It doesn’t matter.” Doug’s voice had taken a deeper quality. The sounds of the train faded from my ears. “Only the H matters.”

I wanted to ask what was so important about H, but Doug kept talking. It seemed impolite to interrupt. I heard only his voice, though I could not make out the words. I saw nothing but the darkness behind his eyes. Time ignored me, it seemed, and the world was a place for another day.

A door slammed. The train started moving. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes, They felt dry, as though I had held them open too long. The last sign of the station passed the window, just at the end of the platform. It said ‘Marchway’.

“That’s my station.” I struggled to my feet. “I’ve missed it, listening to your nonsense.”

Doug smiled into my glare. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “The next stop is just a few minutes away. You can get a train back from there, or even a taxi. It’s not far.”

“What’s the next stop?” I pulled the paper timetable from my pocket and opened it.

“New station.” Doug relaxed in his seat. “Doesn’t have a name yet. It’s not on your timetable.”

“A station with no name?” I curled my lip. The timetable showed no returning trains that evening anyway. It would have to be a taxi. I hoped I had enough cash. “What town does it serve?”

“The town where I live.” Doug’s evasive manner was becoming infuriating. I sank back into my seat and slipped the timetable into my pocket.

“Right. So what’s it called?”

“Doesn’t have a name yet.” His grin made me want to punch him.

This time, I did roll my eyes. “So how the hell do I call a taxi? Where do I ask it to pick me up?”

“Leave it to me.” Doug produced an expensive-looking cell phone. He punched a few buttons and held it to his ear. I rested my face on my hand and stared between my fingers at the countryside drifting by. Doug was right, it didn’t really matter if I checked into my hotel an hour later. Even though this idiot had made me miss my stop, I would still be on time for my interview with—

I closed my eyes. The name of the company I was to meet tomorrow had slipped my mind. Must be the stress, and fatigue. No matter. The invitation was in my bag, on the parcel shelf above my head. I didn’t need to remember it now. I’d read it over in the—

I opened my eyes. The train slowed. Doug put his cell phone away and rose from his seat. I offered no resistance as he took my arm and lifted me to my feet. My mind searched for the name of the hotel I had booked into.

Cold air breezed past my face, bringing the scent of diesel. The train pulled away. I stood beside Doug on an empty platform. No name boards. No people, no station staff, not even a waiting room or ticket office. The platform blended into a road that ran alongside.

“My bag.” I searched the ground. “I left my bag on the train.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Doug walked to the road. “They’ll take it off when the train comes back through here.”

“When’s that going to be?” I followed Doug to the road. “There’s no more trains until tomorrow. I need that bag. It has clean clothes and the address I’ve to go to tomorrow.”

“What was the name of your hotel?” Doug turned his grin on me. I stopped walking. Doug nodded at my silence. “You don’t remember. It’s not a problem.” He indicated the houses opposite. “This is your home now. Or will be.”

“You’re insane.” I shook my head. A row of new houses stood opposite the station. No two were alike. One had turrets, another had multiple chimneys, a third sported a precarious upper-story extension supported by concrete posts. The row extended in both directions and ended with bare fields. I closed my eyes and opened them, because what I saw made no sense.

The road ended where the houses ended. It went nowhere.

Doug took a deep breath. “One of these houses is mine. In a moment, I’ll find out which.” He turned his grin on me again. “We could do with a proper architect around here.”

“Who are you?” I grabbed his shoulders. “Where is this?” I shook him. His grin didn’t waver. “What the hell is going on? How do you expect a taxi to get here?”

“I am Aaron-dot-Doug-root-G. This is home. I’ve arrived, you’ll arrive soon, and there’s no taxi.”

“What?” I released him and stood back. I had categorised him as Train Looney, but I had clearly been wrong. This man was a full-blown psycho. “What kind of name is that?”

Doug sighed. “Outside, we all refer to ourselves as Doug. Well, the men do. The women are all Lucy. Here, we use our full names. I am Aaron-dot-Doug-root-G. You are Thomas-dot-Doug-root-H.”

“You’ve really lost it.” I took another step back. Tired or not, I was ready to stand on the platform all night. To hell with the job. If it meant living close to this nut, it wasn’t paying enough. I’d catch the first train tomorrow and go straight home. My brow furrowed. Where was home? I pressed my fingers to my forehead.

“Don’t try to remember.” Doug’s voice sounded calm. “It hurts, and there’s really no need. This is home now. As soon as you find Doug-root-I, you can come here for good.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. It only takes a few hours on the train. The words I spoke to you will come back, and you’ll know what to do.”

“This is insane. I am Thomas—” What was my surname? H?

“Thomas-dot-Doug-root-H. On the train, you are Doug.”

“No.” I raised my head. Doug grinned. Another man approached us, an older man. Smart suit, well fitted. The image of sanity and stability.

“You have no family, few friends. That will change when you settle here.” Doug tilted his head to one side again. Somewhere inside myself, I knew he spoke the truth. The older man stopped beside Doug.

“Aaron-dot-Doug-root-G, welcome home.” The man held out his hand. Doug shook it. I groaned. If there was one thing that disturbed me more than lunatics, it was cults. I had been kidnapped by some kind of cult. The man pointed to the house with the floating extension, and Doug clasped his hands.

“I was hoping it would be that one,” he said. “Every time I passed, I wished for that one.”

The man smiled. “I know.” He held out his hand, palm upwards. Doug fished out his cell phone and a train ticket and placed them in the man’s hand.

“Goodbye for now, Thomas-dot-Doug-root-H. I only rode the rails for a few days. I hope it takes even less time for you.” Aaron-dot-Doug-root-G set off towards his house. I swallowed hard. The lunacy here was catching; I had even started referring to Doug by his insane made-up name.

The older man put his arm around my shoulder and led me back onto the platform. I should have pulled away then, should have run, but I had no place to run. I had no memory of places outside this one lonely street. There was nowhere else to be.

“You have questions.” The old man spoke. “They will fade in time, and you will not be troubled by their nagging. I am Doug-root-A. Welcome to our family.”

“What are you?” It felt wrong to question this man. Guilt rose to choke me as I spoke. “Are you a devil-worship cult or something?”

Doug-root-A laughed. “We are a group of friends, that is all. Your job now is to find the next in line.”

“How do I do that?” I felt a genuine interest in the question. I really wanted to know.

“You already have the answer. Aaron-dot-Doug-root-G put it into your mind. You will know Doug-root-I the moment you see him. He will be self-absorbed and alone, and he will regard you with contempt. You will bring him here. Then you can stay.” He pressed the cell phone and ticket into my hand. “Here. Only use the phone when Doug-root-I is coming. The train will stop for you.”

I slipped the phone and ticket into my pocket. The house with turrets caught my eye. It had a pleasing symmetry, and I’d always liked turrets. Doug-root-A smiled.

“Your house will be waiting for you.” He stepped away from me and winked. “Don’t be too long. The girls have overtaken us. Yesterday, Lucy-root-A welcomed Helen-dot-Lucy-root-K.” Doug-root-A shook my hand and walked away. I faced the rails.

The sun touched the hillside opposite. I pulled my jacket tighter to ward off the rising wind. The rails below me whistled. In the distance, the clack of steel wheels signalled an approaching train. I took the timetable from my pocket, the timetable that showed no train should be coming, and dropped it onto the platform. It didn’t apply to me any more. Train Loonies don’t care about timetables.

Criticism welcome. I have no ego, I sold it to some red guy with horns, years ago.

Budget time again.

I'd really like to devise a personal budget that keeps my income the same but forces everyone else to tighten their belts. Unfortunately I'm not Chancellor (don't have the eyebrows for it) and with my financial record, I never should be.

Next week there'll be a Budget. Duty on petrol, booze and fags will likely rise. VAT might increase too. The people I rent a lab from certainly think so because they've issued the invoice early for this quarter, which is nice of them.

So petrol duty, smoke duty, booze duty will rise and we pay VAT on those taxes, and that will rise too. Man with a Van will be absolutely ecstatic. He can add a quid or two to his prices and we won't worry about it. He's still paying the same over in Smokislavia or wherever he gets the stuff so it's pure profit.

Which reminds me - this weekend I have to refill the petrol can that runs my lawnmower. Okay, it's pennies of difference for me but pennies add up.

'Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves'. A bit of Granny wisdom I once ignored, but no more.

As usual we will hear that more smokers have given up because of the price rise and that it is a Great Thing. Did they really 'give up'?

No.

They did not stop smoking voluntarily. They stopped not because they 'gave up' but because they were priced out of the market. Or, they shifted from the much-lauded official figures to the unofficial figures held only by Man with a Van. Who doesn't publish his business data anywhere unless he's insane.

The same will be true of drinkers. Politicians will delight in declaring that drink sales are down, as proved by diminishing tax takes. In fact, more will be drinking dodgy stuff brewed and distilled in sheds and laced with industrial alcohol which is a seriously bad idea. That stuff is nowhere near pure. It's not even lab grade. But then, look at Iran, where alcohol is banned entirely. The people will drink what they can get. What they can get is dangerous but it's all there is so they buy it.

US Prohibition killed an awful lot of people with criminally-produced low-grade booze. Look at the current state of illegal drugs. What comeback do you have if your cocaine is actually drain-cleaning powder? None. Who gets arrested if a druggie snorts Vim? Nobody. It's chaos.

So when we are reduced to buying methanol-laced hooch and tobacco that might include carpet clippings, who do we complain to? The local Don? Not a great idea. Think about offers you can't refuse and waking up next to a horse's head (okay, we've all done that after a night on the house whisky but even so) and that's where the increased taxation is going.

Criminals love this sort of action. They delighted in the gun ban, they proliferated with the smoking ban, they are just waiting for prohibition of booze and they already have the infrastructure in place for it. Just as they did in the US before it came in. Criminals - proper ones, not Burberry-clad wasters with an IQ so low they can't spell it - are not stupid. I've met them. They are logical and calculating and they are businessmen. Not like those in films and TV. These guys do not go outside for a smoke and if you cross them, you become one of those mysterious skeletons that keep the archeologists busy. These guys are rarely caught.
Usually a sap takes the rap - sorry, showing my age there.

The sap does get paid for silence. A couple of years in the stripy hole or these days, a couple of weeks, and there's a nest-egg waiting and any family is watched over. They are not evil, these people. They are logical and in many cases more ethical than 'legit' business people. But then, if you annoy them, they can be a little on the harsh side.

The coming budget is going to be watched very carefully by some people I used to know in the past. They will already have made preparations. They will have made those preparations based on predictive logic, not on some populist agenda because they care not one whit what you or I think of them.

When you crush the market in any commodity, any at all, crime takes over. When it does it operates more efficiently than any government ever could. You want more criminal activity? It's easy.

Bans and taxes are meat and drink to crime. Ban things, tax things, and crime will flourish.

As far as I can tell, it's what our government wants. They fancy themselves as Al Capone but really, they have no idea.

Meddle.

Playing with Blogger settings.

There might be something of a mess for a while. With a bit of luck I won't take the whole site down.

Honk.

There has been much rumbling about the South African vulvaemulator or whatever it's called. Having no interest at all in kick-ball, I have not watched any of the games so I've never heard this new and terrible eardrum-mashing machine. I imagined some complex resonating device that could even beat the benches in Shrewsbury railway station (1970's) waiting room for fart amplification - and that would take some beating. They were perfect sounding-boxes. There was considerable hilarity on more than one overnight stay. They didn't used to kick you out of the station in those days.

Mrs. Rigby has video. I am enlightened.

It's a plastic trumpet. That's all it is. So a lot of them together makes a lot of noise. A lot of anything makes a lot of noise, just go along to a symphony orchestra and have a listen. It's not a noise I'd like to hear a lot of but then the revolting children who live nearby also make enough noise to make a decibel-meter request euthanasia. I don't like that either but there's nothing I can do about it. I don't want to be able to do anything about it. We have far too many restrictions on everything already. Instead, I learned to ignore it. Even the child who sounds like she's being murdered every ten minutes. One day she might be and I guarantee nobody will even look out of their windows because she makes that noise every day anyway.

Don't British fans take air horns and other such things to games? Long ago I had a proper football rattle, made of wood and painted in Arsenal colours. That was before I lost interest. It was a very noisy thing indeed and if it caught you while spinning it really, really hurt. Are they still allowed? Somehow I have my doubts. The only time it was used in anger was Arsenal versus Liverpool sometime in the seventies, can't remember exactly when. The only live match I ever attended and it was a 0-0 draw. Ho hum.

This volvobaiter thing is just a plastic trumpet and it's the South African preferred noise-making device for football matches. Big fat hairy deal.

It just goes 'honk'. It doesn't beat people up in a drunken frenzy or trash whole towns when their team loses. It's a plastic trumpet. It's a noise-making thing. All countries have noise-making things at football matches.

What's the big deal with this one?

Is it just another case of 'We don't like it so it must be banned'? There's a lot of that about lately.

Electrofag update.

Long overdue but I haven't spent any more money on Electrofag so there hasn't been much to update. I still use it, less so now that it's warm outside and I very rarely visit pubs any more. It has been useful this week in a meeting and I have a meeting at the hospital on Friday where it's bound to cause as much panic as if I turned up dressed as the Joker with a coat full of grenades.

I bought a big stock of reloading juice a long time ago and it doesn't take much of a load each time. So far I have not burned out a single heater, nor ruined a battery, and I have stocks of both I haven't touched yet. On a cost per smoke basis, Electrofag is now streets ahead of tobacco. It would be even further ahead if compared to non-Van Man tobacco. But then, that's because I don't use it continuously. The heaters and batteries get plenty of rest between uses. Any continuous Electrosmokers out there? How long do your heaters and batteries last on average?

Electrofag will, I think, get a more serious use again next winter. My lab is only a short distance from the Door to the World and the only ones watching me smoke are the bullocks in the field, the crows and sometimes a rabbit or two. None have complained. As long as it's warm and not bucketing down, going outside is a nice way to spend a break. I can't eat or drink in the lab anyway. Elfin Safety forbid it but that's academic. I'm about to add Clostridium perfringens to my list of horrible pathogens so any hand-to-mouth movement in that lab would be beyond stupid. Smoking might or might not cause me problems in the distant future. I have cultures in there that will kill me in a week. There's a little kitchen for making coffee and microwaving those cheap burgers and hot dogs. I can't smoke in there. I can Electrosmoke in there. It leaves no trace.

As I said, when it's fine I'd rather be outside anyway. The lab is up a backwater road away from any traffic fumes that might give me dreadful respiratory problems, it's peaceful and countrified and smells of bullshit. Proper fresh bullshit, not that rancid political kind.

If I'm outside anyway, I'd rather roll a real one. Electrofag, for me, is all about smoking where I'm not allowed to, without actually breaking any rules but giving the Righteous heart problems anyway.

You know, that's where the ASH claim comes from. The one where they claim Electrosmoking causes heart attacks in bystanders but not in the Electrosmoker. It's nothing to do with nicotine. It's because the bystanders are terrified due to ASH propaganda. They are literally scared to death.

The Joker? Pah. Amateur. I don't need any guns or knives or explosives to cause chaos. I don't even need to burn tobacco. A little battery-powered tube with a light on the end can kill any antismoker within visual range even though it contains nothing toxic at all.

Give it a few months and I bet I can give these people high blood pressure by chewing a pen. Even the ones who aren't called Colin.

I do know a Brian it will definitely work on. Oh, Brian... I wanna play a game...

Silly statistics.

Not actually fake stats, not like those used by the antismokers, antidrinkers, antieverything lot. These are a perfect example of stupid stats, where the link between cause and effect needs a descriptive word which is about five levels below 'tenuous', and yet it's reported in all seriousness.

If your name is Colin, you're going to die.

Whether you smoke or not, whether you drink or not, whether you like salt and fat and have an allergy to vegetables or not, if your name is Colin then you'd best get it changed pronto. You know, I can only think of one zombie film in which the zombie has a name. This one. Seriously, Colin, get down the town hall and change that name tomorrow, and stay away from piano deliveries to upper floors in the meantime.

It's an incredible article, very funny indeed until you get to this bit:

Men called Colin, Brian and Alan have a 47 per cent chance of having high blood pressure according to the survey commissioned by Lloyd's Pharmacy.

Someone paid for this. Someone actually thought this survey up and paid someone else to do it. That someone-else took the job and actually did the survey. Then they published a report on the results.

I turn down crap jobs. I could just take the money and write a report but I don't want my name on a crap job. It won't help me get decent work in the future. Really, what sort of 'expert' wants to be associated with something like this?

Modern science. Sometimes I despair.

Urgent action on alcohol.

Dick Puddlecote passes along news of the campaign to make 50p per unit a maximum. not a minimum. That would certainly be of benefit to me - that bottle of Lagavulin I've been eyeing up is currently selling at over £1 per unit. Even to a dedicated single-malt drinker, that's serious money for one bottle.

Nevertheless, urgent action on alcohol is called for so I donned my cape and Spandex and became Captain Whisky-Remover. My one and only superpower is to save the Cheeldren from the evils of alcohol by putting it where they can't get it. Down the toilet. After suitable processing to remove all the alcohol, naturally. A process in which I selflessly, as a public service, use my own liver and internal organs as a filter. There are a few of us still around and we are in danger of having our superpowers discovered, so don't tell anyone. Some turncoats are selling out, it seems. No, you can't have my DNA to see how my liver grows back so fast.

Tonight I made my first foray into the new Lidl here in town. Well, it's not new, it's been here for months but it's not conveniently located. Tonight I made the effort and it's an interesting place, for sure, although don't ask for help from the staff unless you speak Polish. There seemed to be only one guy running the whole shop, and no queue at the checkout, which was impressive. I think the prices are 'before VAT' but that's not clear on the price tags.

This Lidl opened opposite a bathroom shop I once went into, but left when I found it was one of those shops where tweed and Range Rovers are almost an entry requirement and if you have to ask the price, you shouldn't be there. Directly opposite was a most amusing place to site Lidl, I thought.

Some time ago, someone mentioned a whisky called 'Hunter's Glen' (I might have misremembered the name) which is found in Lidl at extraordinarily low price. It was there but I passed on that for a bottle of Glen Orchy, a 'pure malt' at £11.99. It doesn't say how many units are in it but it's 40%, so somewhere around 35 units probably. About 34p a unit, enough to give a Righteous idiot high blood pressure just by looking at it. At 50p per unit it would cost £17.50 and I wouldn't buy it at that price. That's getting into low-end single malt prices. In fact, Ledaig and Glen Grant are often around that price and they're both good malts.

Lidl also sell a three-year-old whisky which I will never try. It's desperately cheap but at three years old we're talking drain cleaner. Even Bells is eight years old. To be fair, it's a blend, and a blend is dated by the age of the youngest whisky in it. It could be 99% eight-year-olds and 1% three-year-old and it would be dated as a three-year-old. Even if that were so, it's still not for drinking. Three-year-old whisky isn't whisky. It's aftershave.

The tag 'pure malt' and the £11.99 price on Glen Orchy clued me in at once that it wasn't a single malt. If it was a single malt it would say so because that commands a higher price. It's one of those rarities, a blend of malt whiskies. Blends are more usually associated with cheaper grain whiskies, malt blends are normally 'own-brand' malts these days. Even then, a lot of the own-brands are actually single malts, just not the best barrels.

Glen Orchy is an eight-year-old blend of malts. I'm about a third of the way down the bottle and it's not bad at all. Feels like Highland and Speyside dominate the mix. There's not much evidence of Islay in there. It's a good blend though and it's far better than Grants or Stewart's Cream of the Barley, both of which are very decent grain blends.

I think I'll have to take a few bottles off the shelves. For the sake of the Cheeldren, naturally. Can't have the little buggers drinking my whisky.

This stuff is cheap enough to take two bottles to Smoky-Drinky evenings. A night of smoking (indoors- ha!) and disturbing levels of alcohol for an outlay of £23.98. Try getting that from a pub night, you'll spend twice that at pub prices and you'll have to go outside to smoke, and be abused by antismokers while you're out there.

You know what I'd like to see? Just once, I'd like to see a pub ban an antismoker for abusing smokers in the smoking area. It has never, to my knowledge, happened. We have to go out there in all weathers, yet when the weather is good enough for the fair-weather drinkers, they can come out and slag us off with impunity. If we retaliate, we get told off.

Pubs, you want our support? Then support us in summer, support the smoking customers who shivered outside all winter. If they are going to suffer abuse all summer, then one by one, you'll lose them to Smoky-Drinky places.

Otherwise... Smoky-Drinky is the new pub. Or rather, it's the old pub. Smoking in comfort and cheaper booze.

Let the pubs close. They don't want our custom anyway.

The Trooper's Revenge.

My post on Rutland Weekend Television sent Trooper Thompson scouring YouTube for others.

He has exacted a terrible revenge by posting part one of 'Dead of Night'. The swine ensnared me good and proper. I've just watched the whole thing again.

It is a good film though.

UPDATE: Watch the film. Everyone smokes. Everyone. Nobody coughs. Nobody runs away screaming. Those who die, don't die of smoking. Interesting, eh?

New Smoky Blogs.

I haven't been on the Freedom2Choose forums for ages. Real life takes up too much time. I must get back in there and see what's been happening.

In the meantime, here are two new smoky blogs. Nothing2Declare keeps us up to date with what you can and cannot bring in from the EU and should be required reading for HMRC because they obviously have no idea, even though it's their job to know.

Stand FAST is a well written smoky blog, worth a visit. This article is especially interesting. Apparently, all those small-shop owners are upset because we smokers buy our stuff from Man with a Van at cut-price, instead of paying tax in their shops. The small shop owners' solution? Get the government to force Man with a Van to stop selling to us, and fine us if we buy from him.

Okay. Most publicans were happy to have us leave their premises and are now bleating that we don't support their pubs. Small shop owners, who will soon be forced to hide the cigarettes behind expensive screens so we smokers won't realise they sell any, are likewise not going to support us.

So where are all the antismokers who can now rush to the small shops without fear of being tempted by shiny packets that exude fiftieth hand smoke? Where are they? I've no idea. They're not in the pub, that's for sure.

Pubs depended for a lot of their income on smokers. Small shops depend for a lot of their income on smokers. Small shops are going to go the same way as pubs and like pubs, they will blame the smokers because we aren't going there any more. That's right, they will accept the antismoker rules as inevitable and then blame the people they have excluded from their business for not spending money in their business.

Smokers are not closing pubs. We'd love to go back but we are not welcome. In any pub, anywhere. if anyone tries to make us welcome, the Smokefinder General will bankrupt them. We are not doing that to the pubs. We cannot stop it. Publicans, if they united, could. There is nothing smokers can do to save the pubs because we are not allowed inside.

Smokers will not close down the small shops. It's great to be able to buy your tobacco along with a newspaper, crisps, chocolate, bottle of fizzy pop and sometimes even whisky without having to go to separate counters for it all. Yes, it costs a bit more in there but it's convenient. You don't have to trek all the way across town to the supermarket. Yet now that their income from smokers is threatened,. what do they do? Do they say 'No, you must not boost the tax because the smokers won't pay any more'?

No, they say 'Fine the smokers who buy from Man with a Van, and then arrest Man with a Van. Smokers must be forced to pay the huge tax because we need the income to keep our shops alive. Customers must have no choice.'

Well thanks for your support, small shop people. You can count on exactly the same amount of support from me in future.

The government needs the billions it takes from smokers in tax. Pubs need smokers' business. Small shops need smokers' business. And yet they are all happy to spit on us and kick us around.

Man with a Van is our friend. Organised crime? It's the only bloody thing that is organised in this country. I don't care if Man with a Van is pure-blood Mafioso and has a sub-machine gun where other people keep a spare wheel. As far as I am concerned, he sells tobacco at reasonable prices and does not sneer at his customers while selling it. So the pubs close, the small shops close, and the government loses revenue. I can't really bring myself to care about any of them.

None of them show any sign of caring about me.