Things I'd Rather the Government Tell Me Than How Much to Drink

I'll have as many pints as I want, thank you very much, Mr David Davis!

by Joe Bish
26 August 2016, 12:17pm

Someone *trying* to enjoy their life. (Photo: Ildar Sagdejev, via)

Boy, the government just feels like your mum sometimes, doesn't it? Your mum if she wasn't the sweet, kindly little lady she is in real life, and was a 50-foot-tall amorphous slime-green behemoth that fed only on injustice and the bricks and mortar of a thousand youth centres. Ugh, gov-mum! Leave me alone!

In an attempt to stop us all drinking ourselves to death (yeah, good luck with that, mates), Her Majesty's Government has suggested a paltry six pints per week for men, which is 14 units, the same as it is for women. But look, government boffins: I don't need you to tell me how wasted to get. If I want to drink pints until my weak bladder feels like it's about to cry every five minutes then I will, and I don't need you to tell me not to.

There are some things I would like you to tell me, though. Some stuff to perhaps draw me away from the drink and make me a better person. Help me out, would you?

(Before you start smugly commenting about how somewhere on the government's website there's a tiny footnote hidden in the "contact us" page, or something, giving advice about any of these things, I mean they should be shouted on Tannoys in every city street in the country. Also, cheer up, you joyless bastard.)


I've become so fat recently that the ligament in my left foot is inflamed, so I have to walk on the side of it like it's been subject to binding by an 18th century Chinese emperor. When I went to the doctor I said, "Could it be inflamed because I've gained weight recently?" and he was like "... Well, I didn't want to say that, but yes." He should have just said it first. This is where fat positivity gets us, people. The doctors can't do their jobs. Anyway, I'd like it if the people in Westminster just told me what to put in my stir fry, because I try to make something nice and healthy, but because I have no self control I start blindly putting loads of oil and butter in everything to make it taste acceptable, like I've been "activated" by a keyword (the keyword is "superfood"). I need the government to help me contain myself. I can't even wear jeans any more. Help me, David Davis!


I think my teeth are in pretty good shape at the moment? But aside from them hurting every now and then, I don't really know how well they're doing. It's not like my big fat gut, where you can tell exactly what's going on via how much of the sun I'm blotting out. They're just static bones protruding from my gums. They go a bit yellow sometimes, but I'm not equipped to properly look after them by myself. I know people who say they haven't been to the dentist for, like, seven years, which, if you ask me, is very irresponsible – and they need a reminder to be better than that. If they don't get it, I can imagine my friends as an army of toothless zombies sipping blended Byron burgers through a straw and choking on bits of beef and pickle. Don't let them go out that way, David Davis! Help them!


If you're going to fuck us out of every penny we've got, then at least give us some tips on how we can fuck you a little bit. It doesn't have to be offshore fraud shit that'll land us 30-year prison sentences, just some cheeky loopholes – some legal stuff – to take the weight off a little bit. Plenty of politicians seem to have done it, so why am I not allowed to? Oh what, because I didn't attend an elitist posh school I can't have access to the secrets? That, David Davis, is bullshit, and you know it.


See, you teach the children sex education and show them weird VHS tapes of naked families walking around their house, and diagrams of dicks, and when you ask Ms Jones whether you can accidentally wee inside a woman she looks at you like you just gave her the wrong bread at Subway – but they don't tell you the crushing, embarrassing realities of it. They don't tell you to think of paint drying when you're getting close to stop the flow. They don't tell you about the expulsion informally known as the "queef". They don't tell you shit. Now we have a generation of premature ejaculators who are addicted to porn and wondering why they can't last an hour and 40 minutes like their hero Lexington Steele. Shame on you, David Davis!


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