In a development that could only be described as the online shopping equivalent of a medieval witch's hovel, Scotland Yard has launched an investigation into a 'poison seller' who allegedly peddled death to the vulnerable via the dark arts of the internet. Yes, dear reader, it appears that the grim reaper has updated his LinkedIn profile to include 'Chief Executive of the Euthanasia Emporium'.
This digital purveyor of pentobarbital, a barbiturate so potent it makes a stiff gin and tonic look like a weak lemonade, stands accused of aiding and abetting suicides among Britons seeking an exit from this vale of tears. The Metropolitan Police, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to take a break from solving the more pressing mysteries of the universe such as why Tube escalators are always broken and focus on this particular online pharmacist of fatality.
Let us imagine for a moment the office Christmas party of this modern Mephistopheles. There he sits, surrounded by beakers of lethal chemicals, tapping away at a laptop while humming 'Don't Fear the Reaper' by Blue Oyster Cult. His shelves are not lined with Christmas crackers but with cyanide capsules and hemlock brews. A truly festive scene worthy of a Hogarth engraving titled 'The Gin Lane of the Digital Age'.
But the tragedy, as always, lies not in the absurdity but in the human cost. Scores of vulnerable souls, hoping for a gentle descent into oblivion, were instead plunged into a vortex of legal and ethical chaos. The police, armed with warrants and a healthy dose of righteous indignation, are now following a trail of digital breadcrumbs that lead from a dodgy .onion site to the home of a man who may or may not have a chemistry set and a moral compass that points firmly towards self-gratification.
The question that sticks in the craw of this journalist is this: why is the government so quick to shut down illicit purveyors of poison but so slow to offer a compassionate assisted dying framework? We can order a pizza from our sofa, track a delivery of Amazon books in real time, yet we must resort to back-alley apothecaries when it comes to ending our own suffering. It's as if the powers that be believe that suffering is a national sport, akin to queuing or complaining about the weather.
In the meantime, the investigation continues. One can only hope that Scotland Yard's finest have remembered to bring their hazmat suits and a healthy dose of cynicism. For as we all know, the world of online poison sales is not for the faint of heart, nor for the weak of stomach. It requires a certain fortitude, a willingness to stare into the abyss and note its dimensions for the coroner's report.
So raise a glass (preferably of G&T, not pentobarbital) to the Metropolitan Police, the guardians of a moral order that dictates we must live through every excruciating moment. And to the poison seller, may your digital legacy be as fleeting as a ghost's whisper and your karma as bitter as the toxins you sold.
This is Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, signing off from the edge of sanity. Remember, lads, gin is the only poison you should ever trust a seller for.
