Scotch whisky

Silly old Pat went to school back when distances were measured in quarts and Boudica was still known under her maiden name of Boadicea. I can still add up old money in Roman numerals but I swear that, like Mr Shakespeare’s King Lear, I have become old before I was wise.

This seems to be a growing problem, what with Mr Howard (75) confusing Madrid with Buenos Aires and Mr Trump (70) confusing Pyongyang with Kabul, Baghdad, Kuwait City, Hanoi, Managua, Tripoli, the Bay of Pigs and so on.

Thankfully, Mrs May doesn’t seem to be planning any bombing herself - though if I was marketing director at Cadbury I’d be keeping my head down now they’ve abolished Easter. She’s a pastor’s daughter - they don’t forgive easily.

Anyway, she dropped by on the way to Riyadh the other day. We agreed that if it’s British ordnance that’s going to be used on innocent civilians, much better that the Saudis do it. We do have standards even post-Brexit, you know.

Where was I? Oh yes, going senile. I did have to smile the other day when I saw that My Noble Lords in the Other Place had declared minimum unit pricing a good idea, as long as it is proven to have the desired effect. If only they could find a test market whose awful climate contributes to an over-dependence on cheap booze and a famously over-cautious attitude towards spending money, then I reckon they might be on to something.

Aye, my wee canny eye open for a business opportunity, I immediately augmented the price of the peers’ cheap favourites including my own white label Scotch Pat’s Mart Radan Maistir (35cl was £6.50 now £24.99). I mean, they can hardly complain now, can they?