Earlier today I managed to catch Nick "Roderick Spode" Griffin's bumbling and inept performance on Question Time, courtesy of BBC's iPlayer. The man really is a pitiful advertisement for his political party. So I figured he and his cronies could do with some advertising...

In front of you is a gleaming, new, SunFire X4600 server, with two dual-port PCI NICs. You need to find the MAC address of one port of one of those two NICs. How do you do it?

Do you:

a) Waste three fucking hours downloading SunVTS and mounting the 500MB image over a 10Mbps (yes, ten) ILOM connection only to find that the fucking bastard utility doesn't even tell you what shit's inside the computer, but will happily stress-test that same equipment, or...

b) Wait 2 minutes for the server to complete POST and then display the MAC address of each NIC on-screen as it tries to boot from it?

Guess which option I chose.

I didn't have a very good day today

Thanks to The Golden Age of Video, I was tempted to investigate that seminal 1977 movie, The Car. I wish I hadn't. It was crap.

What movies have you been tempted to watch, only to regret afterwards?

A couple of nights ago I was in Sainsbury's and wandered past one of the cheap DVD display stands. One of the items caught my eye: a copy of Timecop, that god-awful Jean-Claude van Damme movie. Sainsbury's wanted the princely sum of a quid for it. So I bought it. I saw the movie fifteen years ago in the cinema, and wanted to find out if it was truly as god-awful as I remembered.

Perhaps it was because I'd been rooked for only one Pound, rather than a fiver, but I didn't think it was as bad as I remembered. It was worth the price of admission for two reasons: the shot of the mugger coming to a stop next to van Damme's upraised boot, and the shot of van Damme doing the splits in his kitchen, displaying his thighs and glutes for my viewing pleasure.

The rest of the movie was pretty mediocre, though.

The air is crisp and clear this morning as I wheel the bike out of the garage. Zips all done up, check. Helmet on, visor down, gloves on, check. Thumb the starter button and hear the engine roar into life. Settle back into the seat and stretch, while the engine ticks over and warms up. Headlight on, check. Into first, clutch out slowly, and away we go. It's the same every time: a new journey, an unknown journey, a mystery to be solved. Doesn't matter how many times I've done this before.

Sun's low above the horizon, so flick down the tinted inner visor. Out on the main road, check for traffic, and accelerate away. Nothing else in the world matters. It's just me, the bike, and the open road. I'll get where I'm going eventually, but it could be an hour later, or even next week. Time has no meaning.

Hit the first roundabout and wrench the bike hard over to get around in one piece. Took that one a bit too fast. Slow down for the next one; it's not a race. First exit off the next roundabout - take it nice and easy - and the road opens up. National speed limit, and a long, sweeping, downhill right-hand bend. Perfect. Open the throttle wide, hear the engine howl in pleasure. Head up, look around the bend to the exit, lean over and keep the power on. Smooth. More roundabouts and sweeping curves. Flick the bike from side to side. It's so light and responsive.

There's a car towing a caravan ahead. Double-white lines; can't cross them. Curses. Back off, settle down, and follow at a safe distance, waiting for opportunity to knock. It does. The road straightens out for a quarter-mile ahead, and the closer white line breaks into dots. Down three gears, glance in the mirror and over the shoulder in one smooth move, throttle wide open, engine wailing in ecstasy, and I'm past the caravan. Oops. Didn't see that 30 sign until the last second. On the brakes, up two gears to drop the engine note, and lazily bimble through a village. Don't want to wake the residents; they might complain.

Ah. Dual-carriageway. No cars around, and a mile-long stretch of almost-straight tarmac. Throttle open, tuck in behind the screen. It's a tall screen; there's not much wind noise behind it. Look down, see 130 on the clock. Sit up, slow down, and continue at a sensible pace. 130 is a ban if I'm lucky, jail time or the morgue if I'm not. Without the buffeting from the wind it doesn't feel very fast. It's deceptive. Don't really want to lose my license. Relax and enjoy the ride, getting the lines right, anticipating the apex of the curve. Remember that it's not about speed, it's about fluidity, smoothness, control.

There's the superstore sign. I want that exit. Off the dual-carriageway, and back onto country A-roads. Lean left, lean right, down two gears, keep the power on, look ahead, lose myself in the ride. Don't even know where I am, only where I'm going. The jacket is vented for coolness on warm summer days, but it's not yet warm, and these roads are shaded by trees on both sides. Maybe I should have worn a sweater under the jacket. Too late for that now. Switch on the heated grips instead, to keep my hands supple.

A million years and twenty minutes later and I'm in Guildford. Round the one-way system and out towards Farnham. Flick, flick, left, right, smooth, controlled, nice and easy. More dual-carriageway, winding wonderfully through the Surrey countryside. Long, lazy bends, sweeping gracefully into the distance. Three roundabouts to go.

There's the first one. Hard right around it, hard left onto the third exit, footpegs almost brushing the tarmac. Haul the bike upright, snap open the throttle, hear the howl. There's a car trying to keep up with me. Nice try. Change late through the gears, revs hitting the red line. Enough of the gentle ride, now I want noise and speed. This is the final sprint before my destination. More glorious curves, not a car in sight, sit at a steady 95, feel the wind rushing over me.

Final two roundabouts, in quick succession. One mile to go. Final blast along the straight. There's the turn, and there's the office, not even a quarter-mile away. I don't want to be there. I wish I could carry on. But it's okay. I'll survive a day at work. I had a wonderful ride, and I've got a smile on my face.

Darth Vader
(To the tune of Ma Baker)
Grudging apologies to Messrs. Farian, Reyam, Jay, and Lucas.

Freeze! I'm Darth Vader. I want you to tear this ship apart and find the plans.

This is the story of Darth Vader, the Dark Sith Lord from old Mos Espa town.

He was a young slave boy
He lived in Mos Espa
Qui-Gon Jinn looked at him
And knew he would go far
He loved his mother too
No-one knew what he'd do

Qui-Gon took him away
To the Academy
The Council turned him down
No Jedi would he be
Qui-Gon said, "Obi-Wan!
"Train him; my life is done."

Da da da da - Darth Vader fell in love with the Queen
Da da da da - Darth Vader was just barely nineteen
Da da da da - Darth Vader got married on the sly
Da da da da - Darth Vader would not be a Jedi

He saved the Chancellor
And went home to his wife
He saw she'd die in birth
He vowed he'd save her life
Palpatine told him true
He helped kill Mace Windu

Da da da da - Darth Vader slaughtered all of the kids
Da da da da - Darth Vader's life went onto the skids
Da da da da - Darth Vader waved Obi-Wan goodbye
Da da da da - Darth Vader did betray the Jedi

He went to Mustafar
And nearly killed his wife
He fought with Obi-Wan
And nearly lost his life
He joined the Emperor
Was Anakin no more

Here is a special bulletin
Darth Vader is the Empire's second-in-command
His picture is hanging on every cantina wall
If you have any information about this Sith Lord
Please contact the nearest Rebel Alliance outpost

Bring me the Ambassador. I want her alive!

He caught Princess Leia
And blew up Alderaan
He sensed a Force tremor
And then killed Obi-Wan
He found the Rebel base
Then got shot into space

And in the Cloud City
He overrode Lando
He had to bait a trap
And captured Han Solo
Froze him in carbonite
Then maimed Luke in a fight

Da da da da - Darth Vader tried to suborn his son
Da da da da - Darth Vader watched the Emperor's fun
Da da da da - Darth Vader made the Emperor die
Da da da da - Darth Vader - then he was a Jedi

Deep in the heart of Texas there lies a restaurant called, coincidentally, The Big Texan Steak Ranch. The staple of this establishment is, if the name didn't give it away, steaks. Lots of 'em, and not much else. It's the kind of place where the vegetarian option is chicken. Many years ago, Bob Lee, the founder, witnessed a cowboy brag that he was so hungry he could eat "the whole, darned cow." The challenge was on. The cowboy managed to eat 4½ pounds (slightly more than 2 kilograms, for any deviants whose parents should have beaten the Imperial system of weights and measures into their thick skulls) of meat before he cried uncle. Lee figured he could make something of this, and decided to offer that meal free-of-charge to anyone who could eat all of it in less than one hour. The meal consists of 72oz of sirloin steak, salad, a baked potato, a bread roll, and a shrimp cocktail. When the contest was first dreamed up the cost for anyone who failed the challenge was $9.95. More than four decades later, the price has risen to $72, in advance if you wouldn't mind. If you win, you get your money back.

The restaurant's website holds a list of successful challengers, but the records are incomplete. A fire in 1976 and a sprinkler accident in 1991 destroyed the restaurant's records, leaving only 18 years' worth of gluttony to sample, with four additional entries for 1976, 1982, 1987 and 1990. The restaurant has an open invitation for any successful challengers from 1962 to 1991 to submit copies of their certificates, so the records might yet become complete.

The list of challengers gives the date of the challenge, the entrant's name, time taken, weight, age, home town, and any comments. Some challengers omitted to provide some information, and some challengers, being from suspiciously deviant countries, used metric weights. Eliminating all challengers who did not quote a weight, and those who weren't from America, left 1,709 records for statistical analysis. The population of America being, currently, approximately 300 million, a sample of 1,709 is obviously statistically sufficient to make broad, sweeping generalisations about that country and the people within it.

Assuming the restaurant's customers are representative of the country as a whole makes for interesting reading. In 1976 the average weight of the population was 12st 12lbs (180lbs). In 2008 it had risen to 18st 1.5lbs (253.5lbs). Some years' average weights showed a small decline against the previous year's, but the overall trend is for an increase in weight of almost 41 percent in less than 20 years.

The youngest challengers were 13 years old, in 1991, 1996, and 2008. In 1991 the two challengers weighed 9st 10lbs (136lbs) and 12st 2lbs (170lbs). In 1996 the challenger weighed 13st 13lbs (195lbs), and in 2008 the challenger weighed 15st (210lbs). These four examples provide clear evidence, as if any was needed, of rising obesity levels in our children. As a comparison, I am currently 36 years old. I am 6' tall, and I weigh currently approximately 14st 4lbs (200lbs). I used to weigh a bit more than this, and am currently losing weight by the mind-wrenchingly complicated method of eating less crap food and drinking less alcohol. But I'm 36. This kid was 13 last year, and he weighed the same as I did.

In 1991 the weight of a typical American 14-year-old was 16st 1lb (225lbs). In 2004 that had risen to 19st 9lbs (275lbs). The average American 15-year-old weighed 14st 4lbs (200lbs) in 1997, and 17st 12lbs (250lbs) in 2001, a rise of 3st 2lbs (50lbs) in only four years.

The lightest person to take the challenge weighed 8st 8lbs (120lbs) in 1997, 9st 9lbs (135lbs) in 1999, 10st 5lbs (145lbs) in 2000, 10st 5lbs (145lbs) in 2001, wouldn't admit to her weight in 2002, was "slim" in 2003, was 10st 5lbs (145lbs) in March 2004, had dropped to 7st 4lbs (102lbs) only six months later, and was back up to 10st (140lbs) in 2006. I don't know if the weights are certified by the restaurant, or if the challengers volunteer their weights and are taken at their word.

The heaviest people to take the challenge topped the scales at a mighty 37st 2lbs (520lbs), one in 2000, and another in 2003.

Any causal link between dietary habits such as scoffing 4.5lbs of steak on a (presumably) regular basis and needing double-wide seats at the cinema is entirely in the mind of the reader. The author draws no such conclusions...

msg n a btl
(To the tune of Message In A Bottle)
Craven apologies to Messrs. Sumner et al

jst a cstwy n ilnd lst @ c o
nthr lnly dy wiv no1 hr bt me o
mr lnlyns thn ne man cld br
rscu me b4 i fll in2 dspr o

ill snd n sms 2 th wrld
ill snd n sms 2 th wrld
i hop tht sum1 gts my
i hop tht sum1 gts my
i hop tht sum1 gts my
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh

a yr hs past sins i wrt my nt
i shd hv non ths rt frm th strt
nly hop cn kp me 2geva
luv cn mnd ur lif bt
luv cn brk ur hrt

ill snd n sms 2 th wrld
ill snd n sms 2 th wrld
i hop tht sum1 gts my
i hop tht sum1 gts my
i hop tht sum1 gts my
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh

wlkd @ ths mrnng dnt blv wht i sw
100000000 btls wshd up n th shr
sms im not aln @ bng aln
100000000 cstwys lkn 4 a hom

ill snd n sms 2 th wrld
ill snd n sms 2 th wrld
i hop tht sum1 gts my
i hop tht sum1 gts my
i hop tht sum1 gts my
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh
msg n a btl yeh

sndn out n sms
sndn out n sms
im sndn out n sms
im sndn out n sms
im sndn out n sms
im sndn out n sms

rpt 2 fd

Thanks to a fortuitous change in the Canadian citizenship rules I am now automatically Canadian, from today. I hold dual-citizenship, and get to carry two passports. Nifty, eh?

Now I guess I need to learn the speech.

This is why I loathe, abhor, detest, and despise the newfangled fashion for abbreviated "txtspk". Not because I'm a stick-in-the-mud opposed to anything new and different (I wouldn't last long in my job if I was), but because it's so goddamned INEFFICIENT!

With predictive text off:
"ur" = 5 keypresses: 8, 8, 7, 7, 7
"u no" = 8 keypresses with a pause: 8, 8, 0, 6, 6, (pause), 6, 6, 6

With predictive text on:
"ur" = 6 keypresses: 8, 7, *, *, *, * (cycles through "up", "vs", "us", and "tr" first)
"your" = 4 keypresses: 9, 6, 8, 7
"u no" = 9 keypresses: 8, *, *, 0, 6, 6, *, *, * (cycles through "v", "on", "mm", and "mo" first)
"you know" = 8 keypresses with no pause: 9, 6, 8, 0, 5, 6, 6, 9

It doesn't save effort at all. It takes as many keypresses, if not more, to compose a message using those stupid abbreviations. It also exposes the sender as an illiterate cretin whose English teacher didn't cane him (or her) nearly often enough. If there was a genuine saving in effort to be had by mangling the English language in such a fashion then I'd be willing to try to accommodate the resultant eye-watering drivel, but there isn't. So I'm not.

And, while I'm on the subject of text messages, I will never, under any circumstances, "text" anyone. I might, and often do, send text messages, but I have never "texted" anyone. Text is a noun, not a verb. Using it as a verb is not an example of the evolution of language, but an example of your own ignorance and laziness.

So last night I went with a charming companion to the Gay Hussar, a Hungarian restaurant in Ye Olde Londone Towne. Despite the name, I saw no signs of flamboyancy or campness, so I suspect the word might mean something else. The place is decked out beautifully, with one wall covered in autographed caricatures of various famous people from the worlds of entertainment, journalism, politics and more.

The food and service were both superb. And, for the location, the bill was surprisingly reasonable. I'll definitely go back there.

The waiter didn't even bat an eyelid when I asked for a glass of milk...

On the table was a small bowl with some chillies in it. We'd been eyeing the chillies with suspicion, wondering whether they were plastic or real, and just how much pain one might be in were one to nibble surreptitiously on one of them. Eventually, the booze did its work (we'd been to a nearby cocktail bar prior to the restaurant, and enjoyed the fruits of Happy Hour) and stripped me naked of any inhibitions. I picked up a chilli and bit into it. I figured it'd be mildly zesty, possibly even approaching hot, but nothing particularly offensive.

I like hot food. I'm particularly fond of foods where the heat builds up slowly as one eats, leaving the mouth suffused with delicious spicy warmth. But I draw the line at food which is incendiary for its own sake. I'm not a swaggering, macho teenager. I've nothing to prove. I see no point in eating napalm.

That chilli was napalm.

There was no warning, no build-up, no gradual caressing of my taste buds with the delicate flavour while the heat simmered gently. No, none of that. That chilli squirted liquid fire across my tongue. I am reliably informed that my eyes bulged, my skin turned bright red, and a vein in my forehead stood out and throbbed.

After I'd bathed the inside of my mouth in soothing, fat-laden milk, and some sensation started to return to my poor, beleaguered tongue, something incomprehensible happened.

I wanted to do it again.

I didn't, but I wanted to. My hands were drawn to remaining half of the chilli, and I had to force myself to think of other things and find other ways to occupy my fingers so they wouldn't stray to the source of my recent agony. Despite just having gone through excruciating discomfort, I wanted to repeat the experience.

Are we drawn to that which hurts us? Is it nothing more than the embodiment of that Nietzschean principle, what does not kill me makes me stronger? Well, whatever it is, I'm going to think twice before merrily chomping away on little green peppers artfully left in front of me.

Today's lesson is... trust your instincts. They're probably right.

Rest in peace.

I learned a new term last night, courtesy of Kevin Smith: Dutch Rudder.

Who wants to assist me in performing it?

Saw Max Payne tonight. Wasn't aware beforehand that Marky Mark would be playing the titular role, albeit sans the Funky Bunch. Wish I'd known beforehand.

Well, perhaps I should have expected as much. Cinematic history is rife with examples of computer game adaptations which have fallen flat. The only decent ones I've seen - and can remember - are Mortal Kombat (Christopher Lambert was hilarious, though I suspect that was unintentional), Street Fighter (and that's only because of the scenes with Bison) and Hitman. Actually, I tell a lie. Tomb Raider was alright, too, though honesty compels me to admit that there were only two attractions in that movie, and they were covered up for most of it.

I've no idea if Uwe Boll's movies are any good, since I've not seen any. Everything I've read about them suggests that I'm better off that way.

So, Max Payne. One might reasonably suppose that the task of translating a computer game to the big screen, when the game in question had been designed to play out as a movie, wouldn't be a complex task. The plot is there already, and so is the action. Hell, get Gus van Sant, he of the obsession for shot-for-shot remakes, in on the project. But no, such was not to be. Instead we have a bunch of new characters, ahem, I mean caricatures, introduced from goodness knows where, while two of the most interesting characters from the game - Vinny Gognitti and Vladimir Lem - get left out. The remaining characters were all butchered to some degree, presumably by Hollywood committee.

The game was fun, a lot of fun, to play. There was a good balance of plot and action, and the game moved rapidly between the two, always holding the player's interest. The movie was, well, tedious. I didn't particularly care about Max or his problems, and was only momentarily distracted by the nifty effects during the drug sequences. The graininess of the picture was done well, though, and matched the grittiness the story wished it had. Should have just reshot the game, Mr. Moore. Better luck next time.

I've stumbled across the odd porn flick or two in my time, entirely accidentally you understand (ahem), and some of them were very odd indeed. It's rather eye-opening, and sometimes eye-watering, to discover just what turns people on. The realms of individual eroticism are wondrous to behold. But there were some constants, which evidently reflect certain truths, and so I have learned some lessons from them:

• No-one has any pubic hair. If there is any pubic hair it's usually just a small tuft just above their respective bits.
• All women love bathing in semen. They especially enjoy using semen as a substitute for mascara and eye-liner.
• All men produce semen by the gallon.
• All women love performing fellatio. They live for it, in fact, and are capable of deep-throating any man they meet. A woman's first instinct upon meeting a new man is to get his penis into the back of her throat.
• Men only need to lick daintily with no great precision somewhere in that area to send a woman into paroxysms of delight.
• All men have genitals which would make a horse jealous.
• All women have tight vaginas, despite their men having tree-trunks for penises.
  
• All women are sluts, whores, tramps, cunts, bitches, and more.
• All men are studs.
• All women are latent lesbians. If there isn't a man around then women naturally end up in bed, or on the floor, or in the jacuzzi, or on the lawn with each other, usually locked in a 69.
• All men are always heterosexual. Even if there are two men double-teaming a woman there will never be any suggestion that they might even as much as accidentally touch each other.
• A woman is never happier than when she's got her mouth, vagina and rectum each filled with a penis. And both hands, for good measure.
• A man is never happier than when he's buried to the hilt in some woman's rectum. Just as long as it's not a man's rectum, you understand.
  
• All women have breasts which still point rigidly to the ceiling when the women are flat on their backs.
• All men have penises which never get more than semi-hard. If a penis is pointing at the ceiling it's because its owner is holding it that way. This may be due to the aforementioned horse-shaming size, and the risk of fainting from blood loss were the penis to become fully erect.
  
• All women are scrawny. Any woman who isn't anorexic is automatically marginalised as fat, or only slightly better, as a "BBW", suitable only for fat-fetish porn.
• Men never need to spend time paying attention to the clitoris. Merely inserting something is enough for the woman to be overwhelmed with pleasure.
  
• If you walk in on someone having sex, it is not only acceptable but mandatory to join in.
• Courtship and seduction are unnecessary trappings. It's enough to be in the same room as someone of the opposite gender. Unless you're a woman, in which case it's enough to be in the same room as someone regardless of gender.

Perhaps I should carry out some more research. All in the name of improving the human race's knowledge and understanding, of course.

A quick search of Google for "dominic greene" "jools holland" returned 68 results.

I kept waiting for the villain to call our hero a groovy fucker.

Last year, on a whim, I took a jaunt Stateside to meet a bunch of random axe-murderers. It appears I'm not the only one with a penchant for spur-of-the-moment travel decisions.

A plucky chap by the name of Matthew Harding also groks what the Internet can do, and has spent a few years demonstrating it. Fair touched my shrivelled, black, cynical little heart, so it did.

Like many issues, obesity and its causes and effects are more complex than a simple yes/no question can address. However, given the simple question, should doctors lecture their patients about their weight?, the answer is yes, of course, if those patients are getting treated for obesity-related conditions on the state dime, i.e. out of my pocket.

If they're paying for private treatment and not costing the state money then the doctors should, like any other private enterprise, view the whole exercise as a means of milking as much money as possible out of it and not say a word.

There are those who like to pretend that obesity is "genetic", or "glandular", or some other suitable term carefully designed to avoid personal responsibility, and I'm sure that, for an insignificant percentage of the population, there might be some sort of genetic predisposition to piling on weight despite not eating a surfeit of food. But come on. Millions of years of evolution overturned in less than a century? Somehow I doubt it.

Not that long ago, obesity was mainly the preserve of the rich, namely those who could afford large quantities of food. Fat poor people were rare. Now, food is in abundance, compared to then, even for those at the lower end of the income bracket. The quality of that food might be open to question, but not the quantity.

By the way, for the sake of clarification, obesity doesn't mean "larger than size 0". Having a healthy figure with curves versus a skeletal one does not make one anywhere near obese.

Making pariahs out of fat people serves for low-brow comedy, and doesn't really help to fix the problem. On the other hand, trotting out trite "you're a beautiful unique snowflake" affirmations which ignore the health risks posed by obesity don't fix anything either.

It's become particularly trendy, especially since 1st May 1997, to pin the blame for X problem on a single cause Y, which makes for snappy newspaper-selling headlines, but does not address the more complex issues underlying said problem.

Why are people gaining weight? Simple: they're eating more and doing less. Yes, there is that minor percentage of people who have a legitimate medical reason (and not a genetic predisposition to stuffing their faces with pie and cake) for obesity, but for most people the direct cause is simple: eat more, do less, and you'll become fat.

Why are people eating more? More food is available.

Why are people doing less? The motor car has a lot to answer for, in addition to other social factors. When people walked everywhere, that was a guaranteed form of exercise. Operating a gear shift, mobile phone and steering wheel doesn't really cut it on the calorie-burning front. Exercise used to be a part of people's daily lives, so much so that it wasn't even considered "exercise" as we know it. Now, exercise is, for many people, something ancillary to their daily routine.

At the beginning of the year, I was a tad porky. I changed jobs, and spent a significant amount of the day going up and down stairs, and walking (and I walk rapidly; I don't dawdle) long distances in aggregate, just getting to and from the server rooms. I lost a lot of weight very quickly. For the last couple of months, we've been moved to an office just along the corridor from the server rooms, and I don't see nearly as much exercise in my daily routine. I've piled on the pounds again.

People are no longer educated about the importance of food. Food is something to buy off the frozen shelves at Bejam, er, I mean Iceland, and bunged in the microwave for five minutes. It doesn't take long - only a generation - for this to happen. It's all very holistic.

People work longer hours, which cuts into the time available for proper preparation of one's meals. Mortgages (and rents) are so high that, in those rare families which actually have two parents, both parents have to work just to keep a roof over the family heads. It may not be a conscious choice to neglect one's own diet and that of one's kids, but when the choice is ready meals or eviction, it ain't hard to see why people make the decisions they do. And so the next generation grows up with a complete lack of appreciation for proper food.

Coupled to this is the rise of mass-produced, additive-riddled slop which is marketed as food, made to be as cheap as possible and damn any proper nutritional value. It sells because it's convenient, but what are the long-term effects of this? I think we're seeing them: fat people on the, er, increase, and diabetes incidence skyrocketing. I shan't speculate on such matters as the motives of the pharmaceutical companies in producing drugs which treat the symptoms but which don't prevent or even cure diabetes. (For what it's worth, GSK makes both Ribena and Avandia... conflict of interest, anyone?)

So, on balance, I think yes, doctors should lecture (hector?) people about how their actions affect their health, but there also needs to be a sea change in society. As a society, we need to eat better (not more, but more healthily), and be more active. And to do that we need an economic incentive. I've speculated elsewhere on what could be done economically to improve our lot, and I'm convinced that diet could be addressed similarly. Make it worth people's while to do something, and they'll do it. Capping mortgages isn't the only answer, but it's a thought. Perhaps reintroducing bribes, er, tax breaks for married couples might also be an option. Instead of a welfare system which could almost have been designed to keep people poor, dependent, and fat, have a system which encourages people to take care of themselves and, by extension, others.

Me: You know those jalapeño crisps you put in the vending machine at the other end of the site? Any chance of getting them in this machine too? They're really nice.
Bunzl vending machine filler: Eh? Allah payno? Wossat? D'you mean jallypeeno?
Me: Yes, those are the ones. They're much nicer than the ones currently here.
BVMF: Sorry, mate. They woz only temporary, like, 'coz we ran out of the regular salt ones. I can arsk if you like, but space is limited and we've gotta stock popular ones, yer know.
Me: Well, they were popular with my colleagues and I, I can tell you.
BVMF: Tell yer wot. I'll see wot I can do fer you.
Me: Much obliged. Thanks.

Jallypeeno, indeed. Hurrah for the indomitable British spirit.