* 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.