The realities surrounding the small mention I made the other day about banning sachets under Northern Man’s exciting realignment plans are becoming clearer.
In truth, nobody truly cares about sachets, or our future inability to buy a pack of smoky bacon crisps, or phones without USB-C charging, or detachable bottle caps, or even those ghastly hotel tiny shampoos and shower gels. But I am perturbed that I won’t be able to draw £10k cash out of the bank for a jolly day at the races, as large cash will be banned. Wood burners and, of course, fossil fuel boilers will have gone and are being replaced by cancer warnings on bottles of alcohol, which will arrive soon. Why would you want to destroy the joy of a Petrus label unless your lack of ambition and the chip on your shoulder convinced you of your talent-free abilities?
Still and all, I can probably get round most of those… even if it means drinking the last of the ’82.
What is so numbing is that despite everything, and with no mandated permissions,
