Lies, damn lies and...politics

Today is budget day in the UK. Woo and indeed quite literally hoo. Generally it's just a way for the incumbent Chancellor of the Exchequer to tell us that overall he will be rummaging about a bit deeper in our collective pockets over the forthcoming year in order to finance illegal occupations, ministerial expenses and monolithic 'national' projects which inevitably cost a fortune and bring precisely no benefit to anyone. Sorry, I meant improvements in healthcare, education and social infrastructure, of course.

Anyway, little of it ever comes as a surprise and today was no exception. Although Alistair Darling did say that the fuel tax hikes would be delayed, inevitably the tax on alcohol and tobacco rose. I don't much care about tobacco as I no longer smoke (except for poncing the odd tab off mates whilst utterly arseholed) but beer is a depressingly obvious target for tax hikes. Two things struck me about this today, though, one of which was directly related to the tax increase itself and the other to how it was reported in one specific instance.

Normally, on my daily commute I listen to Radio 4 but this evening, for a change I turned to Scott Mills on Radio 1 as he can be quite funny. Come 4.30 I caught the news on said radio station (they call the news slot "Newsbeat". Dynamic, huh?) and I must say here and now that these bulletins are not noted for their in-depth probing and analysis of the days events. They almost always play music in the background which I find irritating and mostly inappropriate and it also tends to be presented in a rather banal and condescending fashion (not that the majority of Radio 1 listeners are likely to notice or care even if they did because I'm sorry to say but most young people now seem woefully uninterested in news that hasn't been dumbed down to at least Sun levels if not below). Anyway, they reported the 4p per pint tax increase on beer and, naturally enough, interviewed a couple of beer drinkers for their thoughts. It sounded suspiciously like they were in Manchester, from the accents, but the news team must have gone into the roughest pub they could find and picked the most leathered person in the bar (think Frank Gallagher from Channel 4's highly amusing Shameless). The guy was almost incoherent but just about managed to convey that he thought it was a diabolical thing to do. Well he would - he's a drunk. A sober and rational person would, presumably, not have been as entertaining for the more retarded end of the listener spectrum.

The second thing about this tax increase is that we are told it will supposedly help in the fight against binge drinking. What? Exactly which fuckwit came up with that gem, because the bloody idiot needs to be fired right now? As usual, the term 'binge drinking' has been misused and misunderstood. What they really meant were the twin problems of underage drinking to excess and legal drinking to excess where the former act leads to unruly and anti-social behaviour. According to the technical definitions of binge drinking (somewhat nebulous as every 'expert' seems to differ but basically assume more than 6 units of booze in one sitting, so three pints of lager or beer, 3 doubles or 3 small glasses of wine. Incidentally, even the BMA can't even decide on a definition: "The British Medical Association states that 'there is no consensus on the definition of binge drinking'") I binge drink regularly, like many people, but I don't vomit in the streets or start fights or vandalise everything in sight because I have morals (for starters) and I also know when to stop drinking.

But that is all beside the point. Lets consider a fictional character whom we shall call Dwayne (or Ashley or Jordan - you know where I'm going with this). He's 22 years old and he might even have a job because at least he's not as bone idle as some of his contemporaries who are happy to sponge off the state and impregnate random pikey girls (named Chardonnay, Courtney or Jade probably). Anyway, come Friday night Dwayne, who probably lives at home and pays no rent, has a few quid of wages in his pocket and he wants to go have a few drinks with his mates, which is reasonable enough as I'm sure most of us feel that way on a Friday night at some point or other. So he dons his favourite Burbarry (sic) cap and jumper combo which he got off the market, some Bench jeans and a box-fresh pair of white trainers, adds his chunky Elizabeth Duke finery and checks his hat is at the regulation angle (i.e. the peak is pointed skywards for maximum retard value) and he trots off down the Kings Head to meet his chums. During their stay at the pub, Dwayne and his mates consumes six or seven pints of Stella (it's always Stella) each and then decide that, as it's going on for 11, they ought to head for a local Niteclub (sic).

So they arrive at Ritzys or wherever having been boisterous along the way, singing and shouting and whistling at 'birds' (or bitches or hos - depends on what brand of godawful American 'urban' drivel Dwayne listens to) and having maybe stopped to relieve themselves in the street because, well when you got to go, you got to go, right? Since Ritzys is open until 2 or 3am, they consume another four or five pints of lager (probably still Stella, but Ritzys might not be as upmarket as the Kings Head so perhaps it's Carlsberg this time). So now it's kicking out time. Dwayne and his mates are well oiled now and each has either copped off with an interchangeable Chardonnay/Courtney/Jade, thinks they have or has been beaten to it by some bloke who's been giving him the evils all night, or so he thinks. Now they pour out into the street in search of somewhere to copulate or a kebab (possibly both at the same time) but that bloke is still giving Dwayne the evils so he decides, now that he's full of piss and vinegar and Dutch courage, to have it out with him, so he, backed up by those mates who aren't in flagrante delicto wander over and the verbal begins, followed by a bit pushing and quickly there's a fight. Blood is spilled, maybe people end up in hospital and the police are inevitably involved. Dwayne, of course, will protest his innocence to anyone and everyone, but that's besides the point. He's then lavishly sick all over the street and someone's doorway as the mix of chemical laden premium lager, lard laden kebab and unaccustomed physical activity combine.

So what is the point of this little story? well, it's this: In our example, Dwayne drank perhaps 10-12 pints of beer on his night out which is very definitely classed as binge drinking and he caused the problems that every talking head on the news knows are associated with every single binge drinker (because they're too damn ignorant to understand that the half bottle of wine they have when they go home is probably binge drinking and that other people might just as easily enjoy alcohol peacefully). But the tax increase is 4p per pint so Dwayne has only paid 40-48p more than he would have done to do the same thing the previous week and that sure as hell won't stop him from doing it. Nor will it stop the underage drinkers. If you want to do that through tax then the tax increases have to be of the order of 100% or more of the cost of a drink but then you unfairly penalise the vast (and I mean vast) majority of people who drink alcohol but don't cause any of these problems. So why claim that this is what you are trying to do? Because it's easier than telling the truth which is "We can't manage our finances and we need to ream you, the public, a bit more to make up for all the cash we have pissed away in our incompetence". You can apply the same argument to the so-called 'green' taxes too.

I'm not actually that angry about it, despite what it may sound like, because this is nothing new, certainly from this government and I dare say from previous ones too so I tend to view it with a feeling of resigned acceptance because at least I can see though the lies and see it for what it is.

Anyway, that's enough about that. In other news, Jeremy Clarkson was pictured by a member of the public apparently using a mobile phone whilst driving at 70mph on the M40 this week. Naturally the concerned citizen, not at all lured by the prospect of a cash reward for a juicy story, submitted the photo and the tip off to the Daily Mirror, an alleged newspaper that I wouldn't even wipe my arse on, who had a field day (see the photo on their site). It seems that the police are now reviewing this to see if they can prosecute Clarkson for the offence (and for sure, it is an offence to use a hand-held mobile phone whilst driving).

Now hang on a mo. Apparently, the picture was taken by a girl who was in a car with her boyfriend who was allegedly doing the driving. But the picture was taken out of the right hand side of the car and I see no evidence of the cars window or door so it must have been taken right up against the glass. That means that either the car they were in was left hand drive, or she was in the back of the car. But how many people would get in the back of the car when there are just two of you in it? I smell a rat here. If they decide to prosecute Clarkson off the back of this then surely they should be taking a very close look at the circumstances under which the photo was taken.

TTFN

PS I have taken the unusual step of registering for Glastonbury this year. If I manage to get a ticket and go I shall no doubt have tales to tell afterwards. Once the cider has worn off, that is.