Chief Medical Officer Breaks Link Between That Nice Cabernet Sauvignon You Like With Your Dinner and End of Civilisation

Britain's social problems were solved at a stroke today by the outgoing Chief Killjoy, Sir Liam Donaldson.

Britain's top stroppy doctor delivered a devastating diatribe against irresponsible parents who recklessly allow their children to cotton on to the fact that there exists a mysterious substance called alcohol, which may actually be quite pleasant if drunk in moderate quantities.

"Children who find out about this vile chemical abomination invariably grow up into the kind of tragic sub-human wreckage for whom home is a urine-soaked bench in the bus station," hectored Sir Liam in all the proper newspapers which nice people like us read. "And I'm not talking about the council estate rat-people, Middle England - their foul whelps are already hooked on the pure crystal meth that flows from their prostitute mothers' needle-pocked breasts. I'm talking about you - you there, the chap reading this on the 0810 to Charing Cross - yes, you! You disgust me with your corrupt Stowells of Chelsea wine collection and your perverted bottle of single-malt Scotch. The mere presence of this unpardonable toxic waste in your household has condemned your carefully-conceived offspring to a short, wasted life shambling in and out of the prison system. Proud of yourself? God, you make me sick. I want to hurt you badly."

Meanwhile, readers of the Sun and the Mirror were anxiously dragging their fingers along a version of Sir Liam's advice specially tailored for what little remains of their pickled brains.

"You will raise a tribe of uncontrollable little SHITS who will certainly turn round and HACK you to BITS over some silly bloody toy, BECAUSE YOU DRINK," he wrote in big letters. "And you WILL have kids, because you're too sodding THICK to use a CONDOM. The only way to save your wretched life once you start dropping sprogs is this: STOP DRINKING until the ungrateful little buggers eventually fuck off."

Within 12 hours of Sir Liam's sour prognosis, Britain's teen pregnancy rate is reported to have plummeted from 95% to zero. The country's chavscum are said to be signing up in droves to be neutered or spayed by specially-deployed teams of vets, while decent middle-class people like you and me are hastily adding bleach, paraquat and creosote to the contents of our wine cellars and administering the deadly cocktail to the family pet in a desperate collective effort to convince our sons and daughters that alcohol is not, as they had previously been led to believe, rather agreeable with a Sunday roast, but in fact agonisingly fatal even in the tiniest doses.

Traumatised Joshuas and Emilys are now confidently expected to live for at least 150 enjoyment-free years. Meanwhile, the dwindling numbers of Cody-Lees and Sammi-Jos will soon be rounded up by the authorities and placed in an underwater holding tank somewhere off the coast of Cornwall, until their stunted Morlok race mercifully dies out for good.

"I can retire with a clear conscience," said Sir Liam this evening. "My work here is done."

"Unless I can think of some way to cure the nation of sugar, " he added. "And television. And comfortable furniture."