I like visiting the barber’s. Not the hairdresser’s. The Barber’s. It’s an all male zone with car magazines, sports magazines, FHM and Carp Angler.

I can even get to read The Sun or The Mirror (well, flick through).

Sat there in the comfy leather benches waiting to be called forward. It’s funny how, without saying a word or acknowledging one another, we know who’s next. It’s all so civilised and orderly.

I enjoy the physical sensation of having my hair cut. Not in any sexual sense but in a relaxing way. I am prone to twiddle my hair; it helps me to relax so to have someone do it for me is a bonus.

I even enjoy the conversation. No matter what you end up talking about all conversations in the barber’s start with the question,

‘Busy then?’

One day I’m going to answer, ‘Not really, I’m having my haircut’ just to confuse them.

One thing I can’t work out though is why all barbers look at themselves in the mirror while they’re talking to you. I can be sat there making all sorts of funny faces whilst I’m being told about the latest betting or where he and his wife are planning going on holiday and they still won’t notice. It’s a bit disconcerting to be honest – like watching twins have a conversation.

I wonder if that's what they do at home when they’re shaving or combing their hair in front of a mirror.

‘Looking good Eric! Have a good day!’

Actually, didn’t Robert De Niro do something similar in a film?

You know, the one where he played a nutter.

TV has ‘talent’ shows up to its eyeballs now. It all started with ‘Pop Idol’ (I’d audition for a programme called ‘Bone Idle’).

It was a good idea. And like all good ideas, it gets flogged to death. So we had Maria and Joseph and Britain’s Got Talent.

And X Factor, of course. Once you’ve seen one X Factor, you’ve seen them all.

Although, when I was cooking my lamb chops for tea earlier, I noticed Cheryl Cole was one of the judges.

I’ll be watching next week.

I went for a drink with my brother during the week.

We don’t see each other that often but when we meet the discussion is always about love lives (usually his) or sport.

I won’t go into the former but during a pregnant, if slightly embarrassed pause, I asked him if he’d seen the Men’s 100m Final at the Olympics.

‘I caught the end of it.’

He must be a busy man.

I had to pop to the local Co-op earlier. I took my own bags with me as is usual these days.

When I got to the till I put my basket on top of a pile of plastic carrier bags.

‘Those carrier bags shouldn’t be there really,’ said the cashier as she was scanning my items.

‘Why not?’ I replied.

‘Well. We’re trying to encourage people to recycle and bring their own bags,’ she said.

‘ You might as well let people use those ones until they run out,’ I said.

‘Oh no. Can’t do that. My boss will kill me,’ she explained.

‘What are you going to do with them then?’ I asked.

‘Throw them away,’ came the reply.

In between the jobs and chores I had to keep H and P entertained.

I resorted to the old favourite, ‘I spy’. But P couldn’t win or guess any before H or me and she was getting a little upset.

It was my turn, again, so I lent over and whispered in her ear.

‘It will be Toaster,’ I said, conspiratorially.

I don’t know why but mischief got the better of me.

‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with R,’ I recited.

‘TOASTER!’ shouted P victoriously.

I hope I haven’t put her off playing.

I’ve got a couple of weeks off work. It’s time to do all those chores and jobs that I don’t quite find the time for otherwise. H, R and P have got things lined up for me too – unfortunately, they’re not all the same things. H wants to go and ride her horse, R wants to go to dance classes and P wants to build a camp.

One of the jobs I’ve been meaning to do was clear out the cupboard under the stairs. It’s like a black hole. But a black hole that’s packed to the rafters with all sorts of stuff.

Opening the door requires a particular skill if you want to put anything in – it must be a very quick motion of ‘open – shut’, not more than 2 seconds, so that all the other stuff inside doesn’t fall out. Of course, if you want to retrieve anything from inside you’re best off just opening the door as wide as possible to let everything fall out in the hope that the object you’re looking for lands at your feet.

It was quite a cathartic experience actually. I came across my collection of vinyl LPs. I sat there flicking through them remembering all the bands and the songs. God knows, where the Kajagoogoo album came from though – that’s definitely not mine.

There was a skipping rope, enough bags to open a bag shop, an old favourite coat of mine, board games (two boxes of the game Scattergories, oddly), 7 odd shoes (someone must be hopping mad), a pole, a fishing net, an old copy of the Yellow Pages, cookery books, several torches and two litre bottles of Evian. And that’s only the half of it.

I put everything into separate piles; girls’ rooms, my office, charity shop, eBay, junk. Sorted.

But I still can’t get into the cupboard.

P has built a camp in there.

I’m used to furry animals in my house. At last count, including my children, I have 37 mouths to feed. The mouths belong to children, dogs, guinea pigs and rabbits. In no particular order, all competing for food.

Actually make that 38.

Maisy has arrived. Maisy is a black cat. Well, a kitten to be more precise.

She was shy at first but, boy, has she settled in. The dogs, Gizmo and Murphy, treated her with disdain at first.

‘There’s no way she will muscle in on the food stakes’ you could almost see them discussing.

How wrong they were.

Last night, I cooked myself a nice lamb chop. I ate it down to the bone. As usual, Gizmo and Murphy sat patiently, their own chops salivating.

After I finished, I left it on the plate and sat back to let my meal go down. Usually I break the bone up and throw it out the back door for them to take it to bury or chew or do whatever they do with bones.

Except it was different last night.

Maisy had somehow negotiated a way onto the table and was contentedly helping herself to it.

Gizmo and Murphy treated her with more respect today.

I think she might be recruited by one of them.

Having three daughters means I rarely get the chance to kick a ball about or engage in more ‘rough and tumble’ stuff. It’s all Barbie and Littlest Pet Shop.

When I take them over the park I mustn’t push them too high on the swings or too fast on the roundabout.

But today was different. C and L, my two nephews came to visit.

‘Can we go over the park, Uncle Mark’ they asked more or less as soon as they arrived.

I was already stood by the front door with my trainers on and a football tucked under my arm.

‘Come on! Let’s go!’ I said excitedly. They broke into a run as we neared the park gate and I joined them. And what a joy it was to kick the ball high into the air as we entered – I felt like the captain of Arsenal coming out of the tunnel onto the pitch at the start of a game.

There we were, the three of us, in our own little football world kicking a ball about.

After a while they wanted to have a go on the swings and roundabout.

‘Higher, Uncle Mark!’ they shouted. ‘Faster!’

I was in heaven. L even come off the roundabout and did one of those little wobbly walks because he was so dizzy. I’d never been responsible for making anyone do that before.

Then they wanted to go back onto the swings.

‘Uncle Mark! Uncle Mark! See if you can hit us on the head with the ball!’ shouted L.

‘It doesn’t get any better than this,’ I thought.

So I took aim and kicked the ball. I missed but it hit the metal frame and bounced straight back in my face. Giving me a bloody nose.

‘Are you alright Uncle Mark?’ said C.

‘Hmmpphh, I’m fide,’ I managed.

‘I think we’d better get you home,’ replied C, taking my hand.

I wonder if they want to play Littlest Pet Shop when they next come round?

I had to go to one of those boring, happy-clappy Work Conferences earlier this week. They’re supposed to boost morale and remind you what a great job you have.

It’s no expense spared – lovely menu in a lovely venue. But all I was looking forward to was the piss up in the evening. It was free alcohol after all.

All day we had ‘equality’ and ‘diversity’ shoved down our throats but I still don’t understand it. Apparently, we’re all the same but we’re all different. Or something like that.

After the Q and A session at the end (no questions unsurprisingly) we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, gathered our things and headed for the pub.

Among us was K, a registered blind person and his Guide Dog. The pub we were going to was a few streets away from the Conference Centre but we found it ok. The first drink was knocked back with gusto followed by the loosening of ties and loosening of lips. I was standing at the bar with a couple of mates.

‘What a load of bollocks today.’

‘It’s PC gone mad.’

‘I know. But it’s a sign of the times we’re living in. Why should anyone have more rights than anyone else?’

‘Shh, K’s over there. He might hear.’

For a while the group fell silent but it didn’t take long for the conversation to return to political correctness, equality and diversity.

I didn’t notice the time slipping by. I was quite happily supping. All of a sudden, it was a quarter to eleven and most people had gone. I wasn’t sure where I was or how to get back. I couldn’t see anyone I knew.

Except K

I wandered over.

‘Alright K,’ I said as I bent down to stroke his dog. ‘I don’t suppose you know the way back to the Conference Centre?’ I asked, half of my tongue in my cheek.

‘Yeah. Sure.’ he replied. ‘ Go out of the door behind and walk up the 26 steps. When you exit the door turn 90 degrees to your left. Walk forward 120 paces and you should come to a road. Cross over and after another 50 paces turn left again. Keep walking for three minutes at the same speed and then stop,’ he continued.

He couldn’t see me, of course, but I was stood there, open mouthed.

‘Turn to the right and cross over the road and the Conference Centre should be 70 or so paces further down,’ he finished.

‘Cheers K, ‘ I said, taking his hand and shaking it.

See, if you’re lost or don’t know where you are, sometimes you should ask a blind man for directions.

I have missed it come to think about it.

It reminds me of long hot summers when I was young and over the field or in the park. Maybe, as an adult, I haven’t looked for it so I haven’t noticed it as much.

Maybe it’s one of those things that’s been phased out gradually by successive governments – you know, like curly cucumbers.

There used to be loads of it. It was everywhere you looked. It’s as rare as truffles these days.

But, today, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I saw some. And in my own back garden!

You want to know what it is?

White dog poo.

It’s that time of year. Bluebottles. Buzz, buzz, fucking buzz.

They’re so annoying that instead of the traditional fly spray we’ve invested (£9-99) in a 21st century fly swatter.

It’s the same shape as the old ones; a bit like a tennis racket except you have to use your thumb and finger make sure it’s active. It electrocutes them.

I got in from work and saw it lying on the side.

‘What’s this?’ I said, picking it up half thinking it was for a garden game of tennis or badminton.

‘It’s an electronic fly swatter’.

I’m going to have fun tonight! I thought. Especially as Wimbledon is on the telly.

I went upstairs and got changed into t-shirt and shorts.

I was ready for action. There I was, prowling around the house, looking for flies.

Forehand – zzzzzzt! Blimey it works!

Back hand – zzzzzzt! I love it!

Over arm smash – zzzzzzzzt! Yes!

It’s a bit like the Wii but only cheaper. I can’t wait for the Daddy Long Legs to come out in September.

Satisfied with my haul of dead flies, I sat on the kitchen sofa with my new toy/weapon. I was waiting for the one last remaining fly.

I saw it. It buzzed towards me and circled several times before settling on my bare knee.

Thwack!

Fuck!

I’ve got a burn mark there now.

I’ll tell my mates it’s a carpet burn obviously.

It was one of the lazy days. One of those days where rain was on and off and the wind was being mischievous.

‘There’s nothing to do, Dad’ said R.

‘How about we watch a film?’ I said, with remarkable enthusiasm.

‘Nah’.

‘Computer? Playstation? You have a playroom for Pete’s sake! Why don’t you PLAY in it?’ I implored.

‘Nah’.

‘Ok, Ok. How about a game of word association?’ I suggested.

‘How do you play that?’ said R. P had now joined her.

‘Well, I say a word and you have to say the first word that comes into your mind’ I explained.

‘Ok’ they said. They seemed enthused at last..

‘I’ll start then…..Dog’

‘Cat’ said P.

R interrupted. ‘What’s a cat got to do with a dog?’ she asked.

‘Well, they’re both pets’ I offered.

‘ But we haven’t got a cat’ explained R.

‘I know but………look, it’s just a word game. Say the word that comes into your head. Let’s start again.’ I said.

‘Dog’ said R.

‘Cat’ I said.

‘Dog’ said P.

‘Nooooo……..you can’t say the same word twice. It has to be different word every time’ I said, exasperated.

‘Oh! Ok! You start then Dad’ both R and P said.

‘ Cat’ I said.

‘Dog’ came the reply.

It was a long day.

I played golf today for the first time in ages. I used to play regularly but I’d lost interest because I was on a never-ending losing streak.

I dusted off my clubs, donned my golfing clothes and off I went. It was a new found enthusiasm. I’d forgotten the dreadful shots and banished the mulligans from my mind.

But when I met with my golfing buddy I could see he was full of himself. His enthusiasm for golf never seems to wane.

‘I shot a sub-40 last week!’ he exclaimed.

‘Great,’ I said trying to sound genuinely pleased.

But all it did was fill me with a sense of foreboding. The old doubts started creeping back even before we’d teed off. I was in for another sound thrashing.

Then, just as we were ready to go, I noticed a young boy behind us. He was by himself and just a little taller than his own golf bag.

I’m not sure where it came from but a thought entered my mind.

I should invite him to join us!

‘Are you by yourself? You can come round with us if you want’ I told him.

‘Thanks mister’ he replied and proceeded to join us on the tee.

‘I’m Mark and this is Russell’ I said, introducing us. ‘Russell always wins.’

‘I’m Jack and I’m 11’ he replied.

I soon found out that he’d only taken up golf a year ago and he lived close by. He had no friends of his age to play with but was keen on the game.

I saw my opportunity to pass on my experience and, maybe, teach him a few things. After all, he could be like the son I’ve never had albeit for a couple of hours.

And, yes, it crossed my mind that at least I wouldn’t come last.

So off we went. I teed off. And I creamed it (a golfing technical expression). Jack’s face was a mixture of awe and admiration. The ball landed just short of the green, not far from the flag.

Jack stepped up and took his shot. He made good contact and the ball went halfway up the fairway.

‘Good shot, Jack!’ I said although he looked a little disappointed.

Over the first few holes I was getting into the game again. I didn’t have to worry about Russell and his impersonation of Tiger Woods. I had another playing partner instead and could show him the ropes. It wasn’t long before I was giving Jack a few tips.

I found myself saying things like ‘It’s how you bounce back from a bad shot that counts’ and ‘Concentration is the key’. I was enjoying myself and Jack, bless his little plus fours, was taking my advice gracefully.

By the fifth hole however it was becoming apparent that Jack was a pretty good golfer. In fact, it was becoming apparent that he might be better than me. Whereas I was whacking the golf ball as if I was trying launch it into orbit every time without any consideration of its direction, Jack’s shots, although lacking the distance, were straight and true.

At the seventh hole, we did a quick count. Russell was 5 shots ahead of me (no surprise) but, incredibly, I was only one shot ahead of Jack. One shot ahead of an 11 year old boy.

Panic started to set in. There were only two holes left to play. My earlier words of wisdom didn’t register with me and my golf swing went from whack to hack. Jack, though, kept plodding away and even had time to help me look for my ball in the trees a few times.

By the time we came up the 9th and final fairway, Jack had the advantage over me. Once again, my ball did a disappearing act and probably scared a few squirrels on the way. I was the last one on the green, Jack and Russell having putted out.

I took 8 shots. Jack took 5. Which meant he beat me by two shots.

I like to think that my albeit brief assistance and imparting of knowledge will go someway towards making Jack a better golfer. You never know, he could turn professional one day.

The little shit.

My Father’s Day Card said it all really. The front of the card said, ‘Whatever Dad says goes……’ and then when I opened it continued ‘……in one ear and out of the other!’

I laughed, of course, but it couldn’t have been more true.

I’m sure I come across as a moaning old grump sometimes. I remember that’s how my Dad came across when I was younger. But I realise now all he was trying to do was teach me to look after things and be tidy.

So maybe I take after him and maybe they take after me. Nothing I say to my daughters seems to register. I feel like I’m constantly going on about them leaving their clothes on the floor. Whenever one of them has a bath or shower, there’s clothes left in a pile on the floor. Whenever they get changed out of their school uniforms, there’s clothes left in a pile on the floor.

But maybe my nagging is starting to make a difference. Take last night for example. They were all upstairs getting ready for bed. After a while I shouted up.

‘H! R! P! Have you picked all your clothes up?’ I hollered.

‘Yes!!’ they hollered back in unison.

‘Surely, this can’t be true’ I thought to myself. ‘Where are they then?’ I enquired.

‘Over the bannister’ they shouted down.

Still, I suppose it’s a start.

Age. I suppose it catches up on us eventually. You never feel different or think different. You think you like the same things as you always have. You think you look the same as you always have.

Well I did until this morning. I haven’t shaved since Thursday. I’ve been a bit lazy I suppose but it’s the holiday weekend after all.

When I looked in the bathroom mirror after I got up I noticed something that I hadn’t noticed before. Grey hairs.

I’ve got grey hairs in my beard! I’m not even 42!

It’s funny how such a small thing can lead to a big realisation. I need to do something before it’s too late.

But what?

I was in the Lawyers’ Room at court today. It’s always full of hustle and bustle. Files and statements all over the place and there’s never any room to swing a cat. It’s the Criminal Justice System at its best.

The trouble is all the criminal justice agencies have their own agendas and they often don’t match.

‘No, you can’t adjourn the case because it means it won’t have been dealt with in x days’.

‘This case will have to be heard at another court despite the defendants and witnesses having to travel much much further’.

‘I can’t drop the case because I’ve dropped too many already’.

‘I can’t represent this defendant because the legal aid application hasn’t been dealt with’.

It’s like this day in and day out. But us practitioners all do our best. Whatever people may think we work hard, despite all the pressures. After all we just want to get the job done.

But it’s important that we retain a sense of humour too. There’s a sign in the tiny Lawyers’ Room that states;

‘ADVOCATES; Clear your rubbish’.

Some wise arse has altered this to;

‘ADVOCATES; Clearly, you’re rubbish’.

Ha bloody ha.

I attended a high level meeting at work earlier today. They’re not something I often get invited to but when you’re invited, you have to go.

The future of the organisation was discussed. Words like ‘imperative’, ‘success’ and ‘disaster’ were all used, frequently.

I could tell it was important meeting because no notes were being taken. All eyes were on me.

‘Give me 4 weeks’ I said.

Then my phone went. It was a text message.

‘That’ll be New York’ I said.

Except it wasn’t. It was a colleague. She had left her very expensive shoes in the office and was worried that they might go missing.

‘Don’t worry you can depend on me’ I found myself saying.

You’ll be pleased to hear I rescued the shoes and they were returned safely to her this morning.

I wrote the other day about how good it feels when you deliberately make someone laugh. It’s probably like receiving a seal of approval.

I wasn’t quite sure though how good you’d feel if you unintentionally made someone laugh.

Last weekend I found out. There I was pottering around the garden doing my Monty Don impression. My youngest daughter, P, was sitting on the swing. On the garden path was a wheelbarrow full of guinea pig shit and saw dust – it was piled up.

I still can’t explain it but somehow I tripped and started falling. As I fell I put my arms out to grab something – anything – to stop me. I grabbed hold of the wheelbarrow handles but they were not enough to stop me falling flat on my face.

Embarrassing enough but it didn’t end there. As I grabbed the handles I up-ended the wheelbarrow thus depositing its entire contents over my head and shoulders.

P, bless her, was watching this and couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen. A slight grin appeared on her face and it was only when I looked straight at her did we both burst out laughing.

And, yes, it felt good.

We all love to laugh. Even better though is making someone laugh. I love nothing better than being silly or telling a joke and hearing someone laughing. It’s infectious.

The other day I realised where I might have got it from. My parents look after H, R and P on Tuesdays. My father (a frustrated, if sometimes ineffective, comedian) was telling H a joke.

‘What’s the difference between a dustbin and a letter box?’ he asked her.

‘Dunno, Grandad’ she replied, trying to sound interested.

‘Well I’m not going to send you to post a letter!’ was my father’s triumphant reply. He laughed uproariously and H just gave him a quizzical look.

He tried the same joke on R. Yes, same result – he laughed uproariously and she rolled her eyes.

Then it was P’s turn (she’s six by the way).

‘What’s the difference between a dustbin and a letter box?’ he asked.

‘One’s grey and the other one is red’

The silence was deafening.

(Dad, it works better if you manage to make the other person laugh)

Please don’t misunderstand me – I live in an all female household. No matter hard I try I still can’t understand some of the conversations that go on between my daughters and my wife. There’s no logic to some of them. I just nod in response.

I thought it was just them though. Until my wife’s friend rang that is.

‘Is J there?’ she asked.

‘Yes, shall I get her?’ I replied.

‘Oh, I wasn’t expecting her to be in’

‘So why did you ring then?’

‘In case I forgot to ring later’.

Anyone?

Jesus existed. He was a real person. Or at least someone with his outlook on life did. Trouble is, in those days, there was no printing, television or internet. So it was mainly word of mouth.

‘That Jesus bloke talks a lot of sense, doesn’t he?’

Somehow though his story got hijacked by those in power to keep us under control. If Jesus was such a good person then we should all be like him and if you’re not then you’ll go to hell – or something like that.

But there are other human beings who stand out – Gandhi, Mandela, King, Mother Theresa. All people with great standards and morals.

In thousands of years they’ll be revered like the bloke with the long hair and a beard.

Those of you who read IVV will know that I like to indulge in wine. It’s probably the French Connection. Sometimes it makes me feel guilty but most of the time it makes me feel good.

Wine generates thoughts in wondrous ways. A lot of the time things make sense. A lot of the time things seem funnier. And a lot of the time things seem sexier. Sometimes it’s all three.

Take last night for example. I was watching the weather on TV being presented by a rather nice Weather Girl. I forget her name but she was very attractive, nice smile, held herself well, nicely dressed – you know, ticked all the boxes. I understood perfectly what she was telling me but then my mind started to wander.

It was the words and phrases she was using that were making me smile and, to be frank, a bit horny.

“There’s a warm front coming”. Really?

“I can guarantee it’ll be dirty and mucky later”. Gulp.

“And it’ll be soaking wet tonight”. Oo er.

I must admit I shifted in my seat a little.

Until she started talking about wind.

It’s the question we’re always afraid to ask; why are we here?

More to the point, how did we get here?

Stephen Hawking, the wheelchair bound professor, is close to finding out. It could be months, it could be years but he will do it. He’s a determined fellow, that’s for sure.

He has very nearly combined the theories of the Very Big (Relativity) with the Very Small (Qauntum Physics). The problem is gravity. How can a metal object fall to the ground when you drop it yet when you use a magnet it can be picked up again?

Work that one out and you have discovered The Theory of Everything.

Not quite everything though. How does it explain that the most intelligent brain in the world is in a body riddled with motor neurone disease?

God must know.

In this 21st century world of ours, there isn’t a ‘normal’ family set up anymore. In fact, me, my wife and three daughters are probably in the minority (although 2 of our daughters were born out of wedlock – oh, the shame!).

Most of our daughters’ friends, although seemingly unaffected, are members of families that have half-sisters and half-brothers, step-fathers and step-mothers. And that’s just the straightforward ones. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with this – life just deals a hand and you have to get on with it.

Society adapts to these various situations (sometimes at the expense of too much political correctness). Schools have to address letters to ‘Parents/Carers’ instead of ‘Parents’; same sex couples are just as entitled to adopt children as heterosexual couples.

A female friend told me the other day that she had left her husband to set up home with another man. It wasn’t long before she fell pregnant by him. She fretted how she was going to tell her husband – so she sent him a card.

I didn’t know they did them in Clintons but maybe they do these days.

I love you. I will always forever be in your debt.

I can’ t tell you how much this means to me. You’ve saved my life. Without you, I’d be nothing.

I know now that if I ever go overdrawn it’ll be ok because you’re there to bail me out.

You’re my southern, eastern, western and Northern Rock.

I love cooking. I cook almost every night even if it is only something simple. I like to sort everyone else out first then the kitchen is mine. There I am, pottering around, chopping a chilli, slicing an onion, crushing a garlic glove, grating a lemon. I’m not taking the pith by the way.

I find the whole thing therapeutic. Ok, ok, the odd glass of wine or two (three!) helps. I often wonder though whether I could do it as a profession. I cook for friends and family but could I deal with the pressure of a commercial kitchen?

I’ve been watching the current Masterchef series and can see how hot, sweaty and pressurised it all gets.

I have thought about entering. If I ever did get through to the first rounds you wouldn’t see me in a panic. Oh no. A few chops here, a few slices there, as sprinkle or two then straight in the oven.

The rest of the 45 minutes I’d spend drinking my wine and watching Masterchef on the portable. Imagine John and Greg. They’d be mortified.

By the way, if you want one of my recipes let me know.

The only illegal drug I’ve ever taken is cannabis. And cannabis.

It’s supposed to affect your short-term memory loss.

And another thing – it affects your short term memory.

But that’s all.

I don’t know what is good for us anymore. Not that long ago, we were being told about the dangers of being too skinny – being size zero was dangerous and sets a bad example.

But now so is being too fat. Eat more, eat less. No wonder everyone is confused.

Once again, the government comes up with another crazy idea. ‘Lose weight and we’ll pay you!’

So what about the skinny ones? Don’t forget, they’re unhealthy too. Pay them to gain weight?

It’s like those adverts we saw at Christmas telling us to cook out turkeys properly. And those adverts telling us to look out for cars when we cross the road.

What happened to individual responsibility? If it’s not careful, this government is going to be in charge of a nation of people who can’t look after themselves and expect things to be done for them.

Who’s going to be Chief Arse Wiper?