In a twist that would make even the most cynical of gin-soaked hacks choke on their tonic, the assistant to the late, lamented Matthew Perry has been sentenced. And lo, the British establishment collectively clutched its pearls while simultaneously reaching for the smelling salts and the class A prescription pad. The prosecution's case, a veritable pantomime of moral outrage, painted a picture of a man who dared to supply the actor with the very substances that our beloved NHS dispenses like sweeties to anyone with a furrowed brow and a private income.
But let us not get bogged down in the sordid details of one man's tragic demise, for this is but a thinly veiled pretext for the real spectacle: the Great British Drug Laws Review. Yes, dear reader, the government, in its infinite wisdom and with the moral authority of a fox guarding the henhouse, has deigned to cast a weary eye over our narcotics legislation. One can almost hear the collective groan from the Home Office, where civil servants are no doubt dusting off the same tired reports they have been recycling since the days of the Profumo affair.
The hypocrisy is as thick as the smog over a Victorian chimney pot. We live in a nation where the aristocracy can sniff their way through entire counties without so much as a caution, yet a lowly assistant is made a scapegoat for the sins of the system. The real question, the one that demands a reply from the bottom of a very dry martini, is this: when will we stop pretending that our laws are about health and safety, and admit they are merely a convenient stick with which to beat the poor and the powerless?
Until that day, I shall be reporting from the bar of the nearest Wetherspoons, where the gin is cheap and the truth is always served with a twist of bitter lemon.
