Yet another burst of statistics from government claims that more than a million pensioners are knocking back more booze than is good for us, sometimes in life-threatening liver-busting quantities.
Much more palatable is a separate disclosure that the average age of pub darts players is on the rise.
Surely we can link these figures? So middle for diddle and make mine a trible! Sorry, I mean a treble.
Meanwhile, other government calculations reckon that more of us are living longer and huge numbers will soon qualify for the Queen’s telegram, or whatever it is we’ll get by then.
The problem (what problem?) has, apparently, increased by some 75 per cent in the last few years.
And yet we are told that more of us are living longer and inflicting unsustainable burdens on NHS funds.
They can’t have it both ways, can they?
Have the idiots not considered supplying booze on the national health?
We could stagger along joyfully to the vets, collect a prescription for say, two bottles of spirits, a case of wine and a crate of beer and that should do us for a week.
We could be issued with a licence rather like a bus pass. If they catch you sober you would lose the licence, naturally.
We would then die happier and earlier, thus saving much moolah from the NHS pot. We would also avoid an encounter with Dr bleedin’ Alzheimer and reduce the national expenditure on Zimmer frames, wheelchairs, bath hoists, stair lifts, rupture appliances, pacemakers and iron lungs.
This revolutionary new package of health reforms would include a come-back for Wild Woodbines, Player’s Weights and full-strength Capstan with a free allowance of 40 a day for oldies.
Officialdom is daft enough to wonder why we wrinklies are nudging the turps with so much gusto. They don’t have to spend millions on finding out why. I’ll tell ‘em for nowt.
We drink because we like to. It helps to ease the discomfort of our position hanging on at the end of the branch by the skin of our dentures. It blunts the cutting edge of arthritis and the other pains and discomforts of old age. It provides a little consolation from the misery of bereavement.
I am/have been afflicted by all of the above. Some consolation can be found in the bottom of a glass. All of which should confirm what I’ve been telling you for years – that I really am just one in a million...