Black Hole Formed By Implosion Of Daily Mail

The implosion of the Daily Mail today - after its discovery that hated EU laws could save the proudly British disgrace of binge drinking from its beloved Tories’ unpardonable pettiness – has summoned into existence a deadly singularity which threatens to suck all rational thought out of existence, astronomers confirmed today.

The last known photo of Mr Dacre, with a Daily Mail reporter

“Our instruments recorded a brief but massive burst of noise from Paul Dacre’s office,” explained NASA’s Dr Randy von Braun. “That in itself isn’t unusual, but this time it was abruptly cut off before it could resolve itself into the usual expletive-laden tirade against the hapless hacks trapped in his orbit. When our colleagues at Greenwich Observatory pointed their telescopes at Kensington, they saw a terrible, lightless void from which nothing can escape – Northcliffe House, the home of Associated Newspapers.”

“The worrying thing, though, is that it seems to be expanding,” he added ominously.

Scientists suspect the implosion began when Mr Dacre saw “BAN ON CHEAP DRINKS BREAKS EU LAW” filling the front page of today’s Daily Mail. Dangerously unstable for aeons, the editor-in-chief proved unable to withstand the conflicting forces of law and order, snobbery, blind nationalism and xenophobic bigotry which, without warning, the headline suddenly unleashed inside his head.

The still-expanding event horizon has already engulfed the whole of Middle England, where millions of minds have already been sucked into oblivion by the awful rift in the very fabric of normality.

Pope Too Pissed To Read God’s Memo re: Demotion Of St Patrick

Pope Benedict XVI is having such a whale of a time staggering around St Peter’s Square in his ceremonial pint-of-Guinness hat, challenging shit-faced celebrants of the Holy Feast of St Patrick to a fight and then hugging them, that he has completely forgotten about the memo God sent him this morning, red-faced red-robed cardinals admitted today.

According to the ‘Action immediately’-headed memo, God informs His earthly representative that He has finally lost patience with the patron saint of Ireland’s complete undermining of the Christian ethos of pious spirituality, and has busted him down to patron saint of street cleaners and urinal manufacturers.

What in the name of Christ makes you think this is a good look?

God is understood to have originally told St Patrick to rid Ireland of leprechauns, which the hapless holy man misheard as ‘reptilians’ after a heavy night on the fermented peat. The leprechauns subsequently exchanged their pots of gold for Diageo shares and fucked off to London to further their plans for world domination.

“While we’re on the subject,” God advises His oblivious vicar, “Paddy the Snakecharmer is not, and never has been, the patron saint of multinational corporations, so perhaps you could point out that his holy charm is not an enormous fucking hat. From now on, it’s a blue disinfectant cube. You might publicise this by dishing some out at Mass on Sunday, if any bugger manages to roll up.”

‘I Can Pack Up Drinking Whenever I Want’ Insists Britain, Slumped Against Newfoundland

Britain wants to know what you're looking at

Britain – currently leaning against the coast of Canada, “just to get its second wind” - has reacted furiously to the suggestion from a committee of MPs that perhaps it might like to try a day or two off the sauce for a change, just to remind itself what the world looks like without the beer goggles.

“Get your thieving hands off my fucking glass,” was the nation’s immediate response to the Commons science and technology committee’s concerns about the misery and physical consequences of alcoholism. It swiftly followed up by lashing out with Scotland, which fell off.

“I can give up any fucking time I like, see? Only I’ll do it when I feel like it, not when some jumped-up little Hitler tells me,” Britain earnestly told Canada, which it insists is its best friend in the world, ever. “Oh look, footy. Fucking sorted. Pass us another Special Brew there, mate.”

Five minutes later, however, a bloodied and soiled Britain was lying in the middle of the Atlantic, after unwisely convincing itself that Canada had nicked its pint.

Alcohol A Factor In 44% Of Ulster Arrests, Claims Pissed Justice Minister

Mind how you go now, y'bastud

Northern Ireland’s justice minister, David Ford, gravely warned the Stormont Assembly today that drink was a factor in 44% of arrests in the province before slumping, insensible, to the floor and soiling himself.

“Ash I undershtand it, the proposhalsh for minimum unit prishing conshentrate on the health conshy… cuntsy… stuff. Hic,” he slurred to worried MLAs. “In my reshponsh to the reshent public conshtipation on thish issue I did, however, recognishe that there are pretentioush criminal jushtish benefitsh to removing cheap alcoholic drinksh, as the poleesh admit that the Guinnesh wash a contribatory fuctor in 44% of their arreshts. What the fuck are yoush looking at?”

A spokesman for the Police Service of Northern Ireland later insisted that the Nev Filter was his best friend in the whole world, several times, before trying to arrest it over the telephone.

Contact With Anybody At All Turns Young People Into Teenage Alcoholics

This always happens whenever two children meet

Coming into contact with parents or friends is the cause of underage drinking, according to new research from the Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles Foundation published today.

If children see their parents drinking, even once or twice, they will get pissed immediately,” asserted head researcher Dr Melvin Strangelove of Dipsos MORI, who conducted the poll. “If children spend any time with friends, they will get pissed immediately. The only conclusion is for children to be taken away at birth and confined to a padded cell for eighteen years. QED.”

“Whilst in solitary confinement, it is imperative that the child not be shown any 18-rated films,” he elaborated sternly. “If they see one, they will get pissed immediately.”

A spokesman for the government, however, pointed out that there were some fantastic discounts on twelve-packs of lager at Tesco and Sainsburys at the moment.

Winehouse Relaunches Career With Priory Appearance

And she'd scrubbed up so well

Critics were united today in their fulsome praise of the long-awaited relaunch of Amy Winehouse’s drinking career, as she stormed back into the Priory addiction clinic after a three-year absence.

In a recent interview with Where Are They Now? magazine, a disturbingly lucid Winehouse admitted the alcohol and drug hits had dried out in recent years. However, her diligent preparation for a forthcoming tour of Europe’s bars has ultimately paid off, with her father successfully booking her a residency at the ultra-hip Priory.

“Amy is busy networking again with all the beautiful people at the Priory,” said her doctor. “And as soon as she’s got all the booze out of her system, she’ll be fit and ready to put it all back in again, wowing crowds from Serbia to Romania by staggering through them in a pair of pissy Y-fronts.”

Asked whether the troubled star would be singing too, her father castigated reporters for highlighting her musical difficulties when they should be celebrating the return to form of the greatest piss-artiste of the 21st century.

Hospitals To Save Money On Ambulances By Opening All-Night Bars

Fancy a ruck in a sterile environment?

With alcohol-related admissions now topping a million a year, doctors have recognised the sheer futility of trying to educate Britain’s pissed inhabitants about the dangers of drinking – announcing plans to install bars and dancefloors next to their Accident and Emergency units, in an effort to cut down on the soaring cost of sending out paramedics and ambulances.

In Plymouth’s Derriford Hospital, where the experiment is to be trialled, shops are to be cleared out of Floor 6 and replaced by themed bar areas, with a main dance floor in the foyer and a Costcutter off-licence full of cheap no-brand vodka replacing the restaurant.

“We’re all for it,” said a spokesman for Devon & Cornwall Police, who already have a police station in the hospital grounds. “If all the piss-artists come here every night, the Barbican can revert to its former status as a haven for arts and crafts, while Union Street will become an oasis of peace and tranquillity where sex shoppers can stroll about peacefully in the evening, taking the air and a quick blow-job round the back of an industrial unit without having to drop their trousers into a pool of vomit.”

Plans for the revolutionary Derriford Pissatorium include a chill-out room, a pass-out room, a tits-out room and a fully-equipped fight club.

Health Experts Still Touchingly Deluded Over Government Cares About Public Health

"He won't live to collect his pension, you say? Oh, my."

Health campaigners are still clinging doggedly to the quaint idea that the government is in some way concerned about the welfare of the general public, it was revealed today as they warned that hundreds of thousands of people in Britain are drinking themselves to an early grave.

“Drinking too much, you say? Dear, oh dear,” smiled a spokesman for the Department of Health. “Not living to a ripe old age, you say? Well I never… Gosh, crikey, thanks for alerting us. Was there anything else? Well, goodbye then.”

“You know, if I didn’t have a touching faith in the impeccable moral authority of Britain’s politicians I might begin to wonder if the government wasn’t in some way under the influence of drink manufacturers,” mused Ian Gilmore, former president of the Royal College of Physicians and co-author of the report in the Lancet, as he was gently ushered out onto the pavement.

A government spokesman was quick to deny the allegation. “While the Conservative party is deeply grateful for all the money it gets from the drinks industry, this in no way guarantees that their interests will be put before the far more important contributions of the big supermarkets,” he insisted.

Sainsbury’s Recession-Beating Formula: Get Everyone So Pissed They Don’t Notice Prices Going Up

Other prices don't matter, slur shoppers

Supermarket chain Sainsbury’s today unveiled a recession-busting 36% rise in profits, reporting that it had successfully extracted a startling £466m from its increasingly impoverished customers in the 28 weeks up to the beginning of October by the refreshingly simple combination of shovelling out cheap alcohol as fast as its permanently-inebriated customers could fill their trolleys whilst remorselessly hiking the price of everything they actually needed to live on.

“When times are hard, people are struggling to keep their heads above water,” smiled chief executive Justin King, as he ordered a new cabin cruiser. “Our message to them is simple: why bother? Just piss your life up against the wall and let tomorrow take care of itself. Just remember to balance a loaf of pressed sawdust and a tub of grease on top of your groaning booze trolley as you stagger to the checkout.

“People are rightly terrified of losing their jobs and their homes, but what’s the point of worrying when thirty cans of Strongbow are just £15? With the onset of winter sending the mercury falling, even the homeless and destitute can keep their cider refreshingly chilled.”

“And you’d be amazed at the crap people buy when they’re shit-faced,” he chuckled. “Let’s face it, there’s no other justification for our appalling range of third world clothing.”

Mr King added that plans were under way to add fruit-machine playability to his stores’ burgeoning self-service checkouts.

Fights Now 13% More Fuel-Efficient

Just another press conference

British punches are now being thrown on less alcohol than at any time since 1948, according to the British Beer and Fight Association. Drinkers are now consuming 13% less alcohol than in 2004, according to official statistics, before taking a swipe at the nearest bystander.

“Thish may in part reflect that the meshage about reshponsible drinking ish - hic - getting through to the public,” said spokesman Neil Williams, expertly ducking a fist swung more in hope than expectation by a tanked-up reporter from the Sun. “Well, we can dream. But it’sh probably jusht that people are now so skint that even the sacroshanct beer budget ish taking a hit.”

Mr Williams then took a hit himself, from a bottle hurled from the back of the room by roaring BBC business editor Robert Peston.

A government spokesman covered in his own vomit then entered the fight, kicking the prostrate Mr Williams in the head and screaming incoherently about the loss in tax revenue caused by irresponsible people drinking less.

Later, in a nearby Accident & Emergency unit, Dr Stuart Flanagan pointed out that the figures should be seen in the context of alcohol consumption rising steadily for sixty years. He was promptly felled by a headbutt from Mr Williams, who declared himself “groggy, but still up for a ruck.”

British Parents ‘Very Disappointed’ Over Children’s Inability To Order Fresh Beer Deliveries

Hello, Esther Rantzen? What's your cheapest vodka?

Britain’s drink-sodden parents revived for long enough to slur their disappointment today, after ChildLine reported that it was receiving more than 100 calls a week from idiot children mistaking its alcohol helpline for the doorstep booze suppliers their parents were urging them to ring because they were unable to focus on the buttons themselves.

“Wossa bladdy point uv kids, right, if the little bastuds is too fackin’ fick to ring fr’anuvva crate uv San Miguel?” shouted one typical dad lying slumped on a sofa, as social workers bundled his traumatised 7-year-old daughter into care. “Well, ya kin fack right orf, y’dozy little caah.”

“If y’wanna job dun right, do it y’self jenotameen?” he mumbled, stabbing the air with a finger and knocking a bottle off the arm of the sofa. “A’m orf dahn Argos first fing t’morra afternoon when I wake ap innit, git meself one a’ them phones wiv a big fack-off button faw emergencies. Sawtid.”

“Fack it!” he suddenly exploded. “’ow’s the silly littow bitch s’posed ta program the namba in if she int bladdy ‘ere? Inconsid’rate bladdy social.”

George Bernard Shaw Forced Six Litres Of White Lightning Down My Throat, Slurs Actor

Not very luvverly at all

The distinguished star of screen and stage, Rupert Everett, was found sleeping in a West End wheelie bin this morning, surrounded by empty White Lightning bottles, dozens of fag butts and the regurgitated remains of a stale pasty.

The inebriated actor was discovered when a takeaway worker accidentally disturbed his nap by emptying a bucket of peelings into the bin.

After a brilliant improvisation featuring many interesting words from the days of Shakespeare, Mr Everett struggled out of his impromptu bedchamber and promptly blamed long-dead playwright George Bernard Shaw for his heightened emotional state.

“I’m Per-prufessioner Higgins from My Fair Lady, see?” he explained to PC Savage, a passing policeman. “Hang on, thass not right… Iss about a pygmy lion or summing - I dunno, iss fulla words an’ things… ‘s really hard to remember id all. I’m und’ a lodda strain. S’really hard t’remember all those words, an’ names, an’ stuff. That bloke what writ all them words an’ names an’ ev’thing - he juss din’ know when to stop, ‘f y’ask me.”

“’Smy ‘pinion,” he added. “ Scuse me - I couldn’ borr’ a poun’ fra cuppa tea, could I? Yull get it back, swear on me mutha’s grave goblesser.”

“D’y’know who I am? I’m Richard Burton!” insisted Mr Everett, as he was frogmarched to a waiting police van. “Well, I’m not the real Richard Burton – obvioushly - not really. ‘Cos ‘e’s dead. But I’m jus’ like him. He liked a drop, dinee? F’riz nerves. Same ‘ere… y’got ‘ny fags, mate?”

“A dunt do drugs!” he shouted to a bemused street cleaner as he was pushed into the back of the van. “Drugs’re fuh losers. I mean, I wood an’ all, don’ get me wrong… but I’m 50 so like I gotta look after meself in’ I?”

Mr Everett’s virtuoso performance before the magistrate is expected to draw record matinee crowds when it opens later this afternoon.

Drunk England Declared A Hazard To Navigation

International maritime officials today designated England a major shipping hazard, after the drink-sodden nation celebrated its World Cup victory over Slovenia by wrenching itself away from Scotland and Wales and staggering obnoxiously around the North Sea.

The unprecedented seismic event began at 15:23 BST, just after striker Jermain Defoe remembered the point of playing football and managed to put a ball in a net. The sozzled island nation reacted by lurching free from the European continental shelf – creating a kilometre-high tsumani in the process, which is expected to cause unimaginable devastation along the New England coastline around 23:00 Eastern Daylight Time – and staggering into the North Atlantic, colliding with Portugal and knocking it loose from Spain, before running past the west coast of Ireland shouting gibberish.

In a geological singularity which seismologists will be puzzling over for years to come, England then grasped Cornwall and Kent and pulled them up over Cumbria and Northumberland. It then charged blindly into Norway - where it was violently sick - before trying unsuccessfully to barge past Denmark into the Baltic Sea.

After spending several unconvincing minutes embarrassing itself by repeatedly insisting that Germany was its best mate in the world ever, England then tripped over Scotland and briefly knocked itself senseless against Belgium. When it came to, it called France a wanker several times before wandering off aimlessly in the general direction of Greenland.

“Unfortunately England has a tendency to drink to excess at the best of times, and this is exacerbated whenever a millionaire kicks a ball,” said a spokesman for the International Maritime Organisation. “Fortunately we anticipated this situation, and all shipping has been rerouted into the Mediterranean for the next 24 hours - by which time England will probably be feeling like shit, having woken up late for work and covered in piss.”

The EU is convening a special meeting later, in which mainland Europe’s heads of state will eagerly scrutinise the Maastricht Treaty to see if England’s antics provide a convenient excuse for kicking it out.

Guinness Factory Burns Down - English Undergraduates Inconsolate

Stand-up comedians across the UK are desperately stuffing their fists into their mouths tonight, in a politically-correct attempt to prevent themselves from making the obvious comment that springs to mind concerning the accidental torching of the Guinness plant in Dublin by inept construction workers who - perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, unwisely - used a blowlamp on felt roofing.

As news of the inferno on the banks of the Liffey spread, millions of comedy Irishmen were left desolate and contemplating suicide - most of their ranks comprising the sub-species of English undergraduate who firmly believes that marking the holy day of St Patrick by drinking themselves inside out on watered-down treacle whilst wearing a stupid great big green hat in some way inducts them into the ranks of Brian Boru's heroic descendants.

Meanwhile, the native population of Ireland consoled themselves with plentiful supplies of the Emerald Isle's traditional tipple - namely, a few drops of chemical cider at the bottom of a glass containing most of the Ross Ice Shelf.

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."

Home Office Commends ID Cards To Piss Artists

ID cards will be the best way to ensure that you get completely shit-faced, according to junior Home Office minister Meg Sillier.

Speaking ahead of a trial card launch in Manchester later this month, Ms Sillier suggested that the controversial scheme would enable piss-artists to keep successfully ordering drink after drink in a staggering pub crawl through the city's bars, nightclubs and A&E departments.

"At the moment, you have to carry your driving licence or passport with you when you go out on the piss," she pointed out. "Sure, they'll prove your age - but only the ID card has a field to display your favourite tipple, which will of course come in very handy when you reach the incoherent mumbling stage."

The Home Office pointed out that there was certainly no implied threat that, sooner or later, everybody in Britain would have to pay for an ID card and submit themselves to constant government surveillance if they wanted to purchase the smallest quantity of alcohol, or indeed anything at all.

"Whatever gives you that idea?" demanded a government newspokesman. "You clearly need re-educating about the constant state of war that this country is facing."

Britain Drunk Again

Britain woke up this morning in the Mediterranean, lying face-down in a stinking puddle of regurgitated beer, according to a spokesman for the Know Your Limits Campaign.

The badly-soiled nation staggered groggily to its feet, banging its aching Scotland against Italy and the Greek islands before wandering off in search of a beach bar somewhere on the Costa del Sol.

"On average, when Britain is on holiday it drinks its own weight in cheap booze every two days," mumbled public health minister Gillian Merry, stumbling unsteadily around in her piss-stained knickers and a flip-flop with a bag of ice clasped to her forehead. "But what's wrong wiv that, I arsk yer? Gotta 'ave a larf, incha? You gotta problem or summink? Fucken bastarzz... aah... cor fackinell, look over there at that Ibiza, eh? Izzat fit or wot? Oi, 'ansome, cop a load of these babies!"

"Every year Britain arrives in the Mediterranean with a single aim: to get smashed out of its tiny mind from the moment it arrives until it gets back home," said Spain. "Is it really so terrible to be Britain nowadays that the only way to endure its miserable existence is to drink itself stupid every single day?"

NHS experts warn that if Britain continues its alcoholic binge, its health will suffer the consequences.

"If Britain doesn't start looking after itself, it could suffer from advanced Manchester failure or even a fatal Glasgow attack," said India, a senior consultant. "And, of course, it could easily wake up one morning to find itself fucked, but with no idea of how it happened."

Manchester Arrested For Alcohol-Related Crimes

Manchester was arrested at dawn this morning, said deputy chief dawg Simon Byrne of the Greater Manchester Police, in a carefully-co-ordinated crackdown on alcohol-fuelled violence.

As hungover Mancunians sleepily roused themselves from their sofas and doorsteps and automatically reached for a wake-up pint, they were surprised to find themselves cuffed hand and foot, with a soggy note from the police lying in the drool and vomit under their faces, telling them to wait patiently for a van to take them away.

"We've had a fantastic response from the community - i.e. none at all, as they were all unconscious," said Mr Byrne. "Arresting the entire population is really helping us to get the criminals off the streets and out of the homes of Greater Manchester. In a few weeks we should be able to remove the big net from the city, and then hopefully some nicer people from other parts of the country will move into all the vacated properties."

The scheme is being studied with interest by other towns and cities across the country, notably Liverpool. Meanwhile, there have been calls in Europe and the United Nations for the scheme to be applied to the entire alcohol-sodden nation of Great Britain.

Oral Cancer is Caused By Anything You Enjoy, Warn Miserable Sods

A significant rise in incidences of oral cancers is caused by all that lager you drink, say miserable, po-faced researchers from Cancer Research UK. The number of cases has risen by 28% in men in their forties and 24% in women since the 1990s.

"Normally, we'd blame our favourite suspect, smoking," said a hatchet-faced killjoy in a white laboratory wimple. "But that takes 30 years or more to eat away your mouth, gums, tongue, lips and teeth. So unless everyone has been smoking since they were ten, the next most likely culprit must be the booze."

Other possible carcinogens cited by the team were driving a 4x4, having a fat ass, watching Strictly Come Dancing or having the volume up a bit loud on your MP3 player.

"Didn't I just read in the paper that we receive more bequests than any other charity?" asked Cancer Research UK's health information manager, Hazel Nunn. "Bags we ring-fence a few million before the marketing consultants nab it all, and find out how many people with cancer of the ankle started smoking at ten."

Drinking a pint or two for a couple of nights a week is now thought to be the main cause of death from AIDS, autism, decapitation, dutch elm disease, ebola virus, evangelism, explosive decompression, fin rot, flatus, friendly fire, ginger hair, herpes simplex, the hippy hippy shake, mad lobster disease, MRSA, nappy rash, nitrogen narcosis, nits, nut allergies, pygmy infestation, rusting, shark attack, skateboard ingestion, snakes on a plane, tender nipple syndrome, trout pout, U2, vaginal thrush, voodoo, wanking and wasp flu.

"And if you smoke, all of them at once," warned head researcher Sister Ignatius.

'Arithmetic May Not Be My Strongest Point,' Admits Chief Medical Officer

Alcohol is firmly back in the sights of the disgruntled medical profession, following the surprise defeat of their much-touted scheme to outlaw killer chocolate in Scotland.

The government's Chief Killjoy, Sir Liam Donaldson, has today suggested that alcoholic drinks should carry a minimum price of 50p per unit of alcohol, in a poorly thought-out attempt to stop people from drinking themselves into an alcoholic grave, accompanied on their way by sporadic bouts of random violence and insensibility.

"Our Scottish counterparts failed in their attempts to outlaw chocolate because they foolishly forgot that most doctors nowadays are women," said Sir Liam. "And women - ever women doctors - will never vote to ban chocolate, which is better than sex, even if it is mildly poisonous."

The government is said to be very interested in the proposals, not least because any increase in the price of alcohol would be accompanied by a commensurate increase in the tax the government can rake in.

It has been widely reported that a bottle of wine would go up from £2.99 to £4.50, hitting moderate, middle-class drinkers like you and me in the pockets. Less well-covered, however, is the fact that a pint of cheap lager - the fuel of choice for the typical moron lying in the street - would actually come down to about £1.50 under Sir Liam's pricing scheme. This would hit off-sales of cooking lager in supermarkets, leading to a drop in shouting at the footy on the telly on council estates; however, it would represent a considerable saving on pub prices, promising a vast increase in exactly the kind of suicidal binge-drinking that the medical profession claims to be so keen to stamp out.

When it was pointed out to Sir Liam that his bright idea would see the price of a standard bottle of whisky soar to a staggering £42 he turned white, drained the contents of his hip flask in one gulp and headed off to Threshers to stock up before Gordon Brown did something stupid, like following his advice.

It is widely expected that the next target of opportunity for the medical profession to take a vindictive pop at will be sandwiches, mineral water or possibly Cadbury's Creme Eggs.