Here we go again. Sir Liam Donaldson, a man whose job title should be Witchfinder General, but who actually calls himself the nations 'Chief Medical Officer', is giving us all the benefit of his opinions.

Apparently, we've all - yet again - been bringing our kids up all wrong. By letting them try alcohol before they're eighteen - even though it is completely legal to do so - we're launching them into a lifetime of alcoholism.

That little sip of Daddy's wine at Christmas lunch is just the gateway into a world of piss-stained trousers, missing teeth and cirrosis of the liver.

Oh yes. According to Doctor Nanny, letting children taste alcohol is "misguided", and that evidence shows that this could lead to binge drinking in later life. Nanny's mouthpiece, the BBC, has the whole story. 

The smell of bullshit heightens as Sir Liam trots out the traditional line: "The science is clear". Oh yeah? You mean some research - doubtless commissioned by you - has reported some finding that you are able to extrapolate to support your wildly fascist views?

Warming to his theme, Sir Liam described the idea of a glass of watered-down wine for a child as a "middle-class obsession".

No, you patronising twat, it's you that's obsessed. Obsessed with controlling our lives, with directing our every action, with restricting our behaviour.

But Liam is adamant. We're misguided. We don't know what we're doing. We need to be told. We need guidance.

So guidance there will be. New official guidance, that says under-15s should drink no alcohol, with under-17s drinking "only under supervision".

And with the guidance - as always - comes the brainwashing. There's to be a "major publicity campaign .. which will get under way in January 2010". Oh for fuck's sake.

So we can expect our fucking money to be squandered on a load more tedious, patronising 'adverts' to tell us how to behave, can we? Fucking great.

Jeremy Todd, chief executive of the parenting charity Parentline Plus - and what the flying fuck is a 'Parenting Charity', other than another sink for taxpayer's money to be pissed into? - joined the mindless chorus of approval.

"Parents can have a huge influence on their child's drinking choices .. Whilst parents have a greater influence on their children's drinking patterns early on, as they grow older their friends have a greater influence.

No shit, Sherlock? How many millions has it cost us for you to work that out?

You know what guys? We're not going to take the slightest notice of your latest fuckwittery. If we want to offer our kids a glass of wine, or a taste of whatever we're drinking then guess what? We fucking well will.

If you want to control us, to dictate how we behave, 'official guidance' and publicity campaigns won't do. You're going to have to pass legislation, make it illegal for us to do those things you dislike so much.

And wouldn't you just love that?

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On the daily trip to the railway station, to start his long, expensive and tedious commute, Constantly Furious drives past a large school.

Naturally, given the overwhelming urge the State feels to 'invest' in the protection of the chiiiiiilllldren from the rest of us, it is near impossible to navigate that short stretch of road, owing to plethora of speed bumps, road narrowing and flashing electronic signs that infest it.

Gadgets, doubtless costing thousands of pounds, measure your speed and then - because an old fashioned speed limit sign is clearly no longer good enough - flash at you sternly to slow down even more.

CF would be impressed if even Lewis fucking Hamilton could pick his way through the rats' nest of jutting kerbs, central islands and white paint at more than 30mph, but Nanny knows best, eh?

And all this, even though the school is set well back behind a grassed area and a car park, a good hundred yards from the road. And the vast majority of kids are delivered by bus, to the doorstep, so they don't miss out on that popular clinical obesity trend the young people seem to enjoy. And there's nothing but fields on the other side of the road, so any 'student' crossing the road would only do so if they had a sudden inexplicable urge to stand in a fucking ploughed field.

Passing this morning, CF noticed the ubiquitous yellow fluorescent jacket of a man-with-a-clipboard. Then another. And another. There's another. In all there were seven people standing beside the road, amid the forest of road signs. Two of them had speed guns, pointing at CF's car.  The speed was noted on the clipboards, probably along with the cars registration, CF's ethnic group and any other 'useful' observations to feed the State's enormous database. CF is surprised he wasn't pulled over to give a fucking DNA sample as well.

So what were they doing, these employees of the state? Why are we paying for seven seemingly healthy working-age adults to don the traditional yellow vest of public sector wages and stand by the road in this small Cambridgeshire village?

CF didn't really have the time or the inclination to stop and chat – later, clipboard monkeys! - but their purpose was obvious.

They were carrying out a little survey, the seven of them, to make sure that we were all obeying the speed signs. To make sure that nobody was roaring past the school and endangering any of the kiddie-winks. Presumably, they will gather later today and collate their results, then pass them to another committee, who will then colllate all-the-teams-across-the-lands' results, then pass them to another commitee to review them. All to ensure that we are all continuing to obey their instructions.

Perhaps, if naughty people are still going too fast, even more road signs will be put up. Perhaps the road could be made even narrower. Perhaps it should be dug up altogether, and replaced with a layer of broken glass and rusty nails, that we really can't drive over at all.

Oh, but we need be absolutely sure, says Nanny, that no-one, no-one, is driving past this school in a way that we think might put the children, the poor, innocent children over there in the distance, in any danger as they make their way to school.

There was only one tiny, tiny, flaw in their plan. One teensy oversight.  One thing that meant these poor fools were wasting their time and, naturally, wasting our money.

It was six fucking thirty in the morning. 

Why, you may wonder, could they not do their survey at 8:30, when the precious children are actually arriving? Or at 4 in the afternoon, when little dears are leaving? Simple: because by then, of course, the road is completely log-jammed, clogged with buses, 4x4’s and teachers’ mopeds. No-one’s breaking any speed limits then.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Nanny State in action. Give me strength.

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Back in the good ol' days, only children born the very wealthiest and most privileged families would have a Nanny. Someone to look after them, because their Mummy or Daddy either couldn't or wouldn't.

Now, you lucky children, every single one of has you a nanny. The same nanny. Nanny State.

Nanny State, dears, will look after all of you, all the time. Even when you're a grown-up, Nanny will look after you, but the ones Nanny loves best are you, you little scamps.

And Nanny State knows best. Always.

Nanny says you must be protected at all times, from the naughty grown-ups. Especially those who might not be nice, and who might want to do horrid things. And that could be anybody, boys and girls

So, my dears, you're going to have to stop going to play rugby on Saturdays. Yes, you might well love rugby. But to get there, you have to have a lift from Mr. Smith, who lives down the road.

And Mr Smith, for all Nanny knows, might well be the sort of man who - instead of driving you the sports field, like he does every week - will suddenly decide to stop his Volvo in a lay-by and show you his winky.

And you, sweetheart, can't have any more tennis lessons. Nanny's sorry, but you really can't. That lovely Mr Brown has been teaching little girls tennis for years and years, but Nanny thinks that, given half a chance, Mr Brown might like to take some pictures of you when you're getting changed. So best you don't see him any more.

Do you remember how you used to like it when grown-ups came to your school assemblies and told you interesting things? So much better than the boring old teachers, wasn't it? People that wrote books, people that painted pictures, people that had done interesting things, would come and talk to you about it.

Nanny's got to stop that too. Sorry. But there were just too many of them to investigate, and some of them might really have wanted to come to yoit school not to talk about the animals they photographed in Kenya, but to put their horrid hands inside your clothes.


So, just in case, Nanny's going to make it a lot harder for them to get anywhere near you. So hard, that a lot of them won't bother, and you won't see them anymore. Isn't that good?

And this week, kiddies, Nanny's got some more bad news for you.

Remember how you used to like going to the farm? To see the sheep and the pigs and the cows and the chickens and the funny old donkey? Remember how you always had to wash your hands afterwards, in case any yucky germs got on them?

Well, dears, Nanny thinks that some Mummies and Daddies might not remember to remind you. Then you might get a sorely tummy.

So, just in case, Nanny thinks it best if you don't go to see the animals any more. Yes, the sheep will be sad too. But we don't want any more sore tummies, do we?

What's that? What can you do? Well .. well ... How about some more things not to do?

You'd better not play on your PlayStation, because you might get naughty ideas about guns.

Best if you don't play with those nasty conkers this autumn either. Someone might hurt their knuckles, or get something in their eye, so Nanny thinks no-one should have conkers.

You'd better not watch television, because you might get 'obese'. Who knows what 'obese' means? That's right. It means 'fat'. Fat like a little boy or girl who never plays any sport, and never goes for a nice walk around the fields, and never really goes out at all. We don't want that, do we?

What? You want to know what you can do? Oh, Nanny doesn't know. Best leave Nanny alone now dear: she's thinking. Thinking of some more rules to keep you safe, dear.

Run along.


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