* IN the Nerd House commissariat yesterday, we were
lamenting the loss of something that used to be heralded as regularly
as ''the first cuckoo of spring''. I refer
to the first, annual pre-
Budget squeals of pain from the Scotch whisky lobby.
These were always heard around mid-February. The sound was a
pleasurable
reminder of the cycle of the seasons, evoking a comforting sense of
dependability and normality.
Now, of course, we have so many Budgets from London and regulations
from Brussels that the poor whisky people are squealing all year round.
Thus are our great traditions being thoughtlessly eroded. We sighed
deeply.
But at least the lobbyists are not strapped for new ideas. Much
admiration was expressed for the line introduced by Lord Campbell of
Alloway, who was heard upon the radio suggesting in perfectly sober and
rational tones that whisky might be considered medicinal and thus
subject to zero-rate VAT.
Ms Angelica Banana-Skyne, the High Whitecraigs polymath, who reads
learned
papers at bedtime to induce sleep, said that Lord Campbell had a
point. She recalled an article that appeared in 1917, in The Lancet. Two
doctors had deplored a stipulation under the Defence of the Realm Act
that whisky sold to the public had henceforth to be watered down to 70
degrees proof. This, they postulated, might induce whisky-lovers to
drink it less frequently, or not at all.
We decided that somebody should tell Lord Campbell that he was not
alone. Then The Braces pointed out that if whisky was medicinal, it
would be subject to prescription charges which have just increased by 13
per cent. Swings and roundabouts, he said. We sighed even more deeply
and decided not to phone Lord Campbell after all, even though Alloway is
a small place and it wouldn't be difficult to track him down.
* Ring ring. ''Hello, thank you for calling Nerd House. Can I help
you?''
''Can I speak to the manager?''
''We have 17. Which one do you require?''
''Any one will do.'' Sound of The Teddy Bear's Picnic played with one
finger on an eighth-generation digital synthesiser.
''Manager, Disposable Incomes Analysis.''
''I'm calling about the new Industrial Society/BBC Education
Department survey, in which managers estimated they lost a day's work a
week, mostly through unwanted telephone interruptions.''
''Well?''
''We think that realistically this figure should be somewhat higher.
Two days, perhaps? Two and a half?''
''Look, my friend. I don't have time for this sort of thing. I'm
waiting for a series of incoming calls before the 3.20 at Plumpton.
Sorry, I mean before 3.20. Then I have to ascertain a daily retail
consumer index before 5.30pm.''
''You mean you'll be doing the shopping on the way home?''
''Look, don't be saucy. Please clear the line, I have disposable
incomes to analyse here.''
''Shouldn't take you too long.''
''Who do you represent anyway?''
''The telephone company. I'm manager of the Time Wasting Sales
(Interruptions) Division and I'm trying to check on the effectiveness of
our service to cus . . . Hello? Hello? Oh well, I can always call
back.''
* A brief visit to an ancient city hospital as an out-patient
(athlete's foot, seeing you ask) earned me a #20 fixed penalty on-street
parking fine and gave me a business idea. If all crumbling Victorian
hospitals demolished one block of wards to make space for a car park,
out-patients would have to wait longer and thus pay more for parking.
Those who unfortunately died in the process, and were thus unable to
remove their personal transport, would attract a special tow-away
penalty payable from their estates. The income could be used to enhance
NHS parking facilities, which range from unobtainable downwards.
With all these new-fangled management structures, I don't know why
hospitals have to depend on people like me for guidance.
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