You know what I hate. Apart from that. And that. Yes, and that. All right, enough with the suggestions. What I hate is people trying to save me from myself. That’s right. If I want to drive my 1952 Bentley R Type off of a cliff and claim on the insurance, I should be allowed to; if I want to sleep on a television for twenty-two hours a day, I should be allowed to; and if I want to destroy my body with cheap booze, I should be allowed to. So, what I don’t need is some paper-pusher in Whitehall dictating that the bottle I’m about to consume has to cost me more than £4.22. What’s wrong with a £3 bottle of wine? I think I more than pay for the consequences, if not monetarily, then at least in the vile taste perforating my taste buds.
Or maybe that’s the government’s cunning plan? By making the despicable stuff so expensive, we’ll all move to a higher class of alcohol, forcing brewers to develop ever more sophisticated drinking-experiences and lifting this country out of the cider-fuelled mire it finds itself in. What a sickening thought.
Fortunately, governmental u-turns being as popular as a bottle of Jack Daniels at prom, we should be in no danger at all. God bless the populist prevaricating public-pandering politicians that run this country.