The girl they call Kate-la-Plate,
Jumped right on to a roller skate.
She rolled herself down the hillside,
Shouting and screeching: ‘watch out, mate!’
But keeping her balance all the way,
Until her wheels got stuck in a grate.

The girl they call Kate-la-Jaunty,
Owned bongo drums aplenty.
Though nobody ever counted,
Some say she had more than twenty,
Which she played with calypso rhythm,
Singing songs by Harry Belafonte.

The girl they call Kate-la-Toward,
Holidayed in a Norwegian fjord.
She slept in a fishing trawler,
Which to a sturdy tree she had moored.
When the heron stopped by to say hello,
She replied ‘please do come aboard’.

The girl they call Kate-la-Dime,
Wished she lived in New York all the time.
She didn’t know what job she’d do there,
Maybe a dancer, an actress or mime?
But when asked what cocktail she wanted,
She was sure: margaritas with lime…

The girl they call Kate-la-Souffle,
Found herself hosting a super soiree.
There was lots of booze on the sideboard,
And the food was a finger buffet.
But best of all, when guests arrived,
They all wished Kate a happy birthday!

Congratulations to GameStation, high street and online retailers of computer games, for knowing how to spot a bargain. It seems most of us would sell our immortal souls very cheaply. And when we are talking soul, we are talking about the part of you that supposedly survives when the body dies, not the part of you that best appreciates black music (which may or may not be the same thing). Legends tell us that the Devil makes extraordinary promises to secure a typical soul, but GameStation seem to have found a canny way to get one step ahead of the hornéd one and to make a killing from his infernal stakes. 7,500 of GameStation’s customers were offered a straight choice – give up the rights to their soul or receive a £5 voucher. Almost all of them decided they would rather own one less soul in preference to owning £5 more voucher. That would suggest the typical economic valuation of a soul is worth less than negative five quid to its owner – people will literally pay a fiver to have somebody else take possession of their soul. Now I appreciate our society has become very materialistic, but this is going too far.

Of course, there is more to this story, but you would never find out if you did not keep reading. GameStation smuggled the transaction into the small print when buying an online game.

“By placing an order via this Web site on the first day of the fourth month of the year 2010 Anno Domini, you agree to grant Us a non transferable option to claim, for now and for ever more, your immortal soul. Should We wish to exercise this option, you agree to surrender your immortal soul, and any claim you may have on it, within 5 (five) working days of receiving written notification from gamestation.co.uk or one of its duly authorised minions.”

It was a clever stunt to demonstrate that people do not read small print, and the story was picked up in various places, including Yahoo and Fox News. Some might think the moral of the story is that shoppers need to be more careful. I do not. The problem here is the same as in so many parts of our modern lives: too many rules. If you want to spend your life reading all that fine print, you are welcome to. You would be safer for it. But come my final moments on this Earth, I do not want a hundred thousand lines of terms and conditions to be flashing before my eyes.

To my mind, there is something wrong with an economic system that expects ordinary customers to wade through legalese just to make a simple purchase. That legalese was not written by people desperate to serve the interests of the customers reading all those horrid words, usually little in print and long on syllables. T’s and C’s are written by people paid to get one over on customers whenever push comes to shove. In the final reckoning, none of these legally-worded promises and commitments are ever open to negotiation anyway. With small print, you can either lump it or lump it. No business would ever make a special exception for just one customer, and every alternate vendor has employed pretty similar lawyers, if they were not copying the legalese from their rivals to begin with.

We live in societies that are great at keeping lawyers busy (and rich) and great at keeping ordinary people busy (and much poorer) thanks to an unhealthy obsession with contractual rigmarole. Of course, some consumers invite the misery on themselves and everyone else; there would not be such a need for exclusions and caveats if businesses were not so routinely preyed upon by the chancers, blaggers, fraudsters and malcontents of the world. Between suppliers cheating customers and customers cheating suppliers, we have felt the need to invent millions of rules to keep everything fair. In order to serve this goal, countless lawyers demonstrate how to play the game, countless judges keep score, and countless politicians debate how to make for better sport. If we were all just plain, upright and honest people, good to each other, who wanted what was fair and nothing else, we would not need all these rules. But too many of us are horrible cheats, always looking to finesse and finagle the system for our own ends. So then we make the system more complex, only to end up in perpetual hamster-wheel chase between our good selves and bad selves. One eye polices the world, stopping others from taking advantage, whilst the other is on the look out for every sneaky short cut to what we want. Inevitably we end up cross-eyed and back where we begun.

I have no idea what God would do if he came back to Earth, but we all know the Devil would be a lawyer. The easiest way to tip the scales of justice as you please is to sit yourself in the middle, and to become its arbiter. Better still, get paid a commission whenever you do. Presumably GameStation still had to consult their lawyers about playing their little lighthearted wheeze. In the realm of contracts, there is no room for good old fashioned values, like a man’s word being his bond, or trusting to a handshake. The truth is we have already sold our souls, and all we got in exchange was a lot of empty words on a hollow contract. Worst of all, we never even read it.

An awfully long long time ago, in a place nowhere like here or wherever the heck you are, there was a story where knights fought with swords, battled strange monsters, went on long journeys and saved damsels in distress. More recently, I parodied that story in Star Wars: Parallel Universe and in countless more installments since. By countless, I mean seven, but that is quite a few. Now it is time for the latest installment, which is the first installment of the third installment, or of the sixth installment, depending on how you count these things. It is time to return to Parallel Tatooine, where R2 and ’3PO are making their way to see Jabba…

[C-3PO and R2-D2 trundle up to the forbidding door of a half-buried palace-cum-fort basking under the blazing sun of Tatooine.]

C-3PO: I can’t see a doorbell anywhere.

R2-D2: Bleep twert (translates as “I can’t even see one of those ports that I like to stick my appendage into”.)

C-3PO: Enough of your appendage. You’re always sticking that thing into every passing hole. Really. I think you need a cold oil shower before you go and overheat yourself.

R2-D2: Whistle-beep (“You’re just jealous because at least I get my end in now and again. It’s not just your voice that’s effeminate.)

C-3PO: This bickering isn’t getting us anywhere. Look for a doorknob, will you? And if you find one, try not to mate with it.

R2-D2: Tweet (“I can’t see anything. Just knock on the door”)

C-3PO: Wait, look. This might be it. (C3P-O points directly at a small round button to the right side of the doors.)

R2-D2: Whistle-tweet (“Don’t just point at it, press the bleedin’ thing.)

[C-3PO presses the button]

[They wait a few moments]

R2-D2: Whistle (“Did you press it right?”)

C-3PO: Of course I pressed it right. I know how to push a button.

R2-D2: Beep bleep (“You know how to push my buttons, and that’s a fact. Press it again.”)

[C3P-O Presses the button again]

[Nothing happens for a minute]

C-3PO: Maybe it’s not working.

R2-D2: Bleep beep (“Maybe they’re out. I said we should have called ahead but would anyone listen to me?”)

C-3PO: I’ll try knocking. (He raps his knuckle on the door, which makes an echoing metallic noise.)

[They wait for another minute.]

R2-D2: Tweet (“This is hopeless. I’m going to have a look round the back.”)

C-3PO: I’ll wait here.

[R2-D2 exits left to survey the circular perimeter of the palace-fort’s outer walls. The sun begins to set in the distance. Another ten minutes go by and nothing happens. C-3PO knocks on the door again. A quarter of an hour goes by and R2-D2 returns, entering from the right.]

C-3PO: Does it look like anyone’s in?

R2-D2: Tweet-bleep-beep (“I couldn’t tell. There’s not a single bloody window as far as I can see.”)

C-3PO: That’s a shame. Such a sunny planet. You’d think they’d prefer a bit of natural light to brighten the mood. But I suppose the view’s not up to much. Did you check the roof, to see if there were skylights?

R2-D2: Beep beep (“How do you expect me to get up on the roof?”)

C-3PO: With those rockets you keep in your legs, of course.

R2-D2: Beep (“What you on about?”)

C-3PO: R2-D2… has your wiring become so defective that you’re suffering robodementia? Fly up with your rockets!

R2-D2: Bleep, whistle (“Oh yeah. I forgot all about them. You know, I don’t think I’ve used these rockets for twenty years. I feel I right Charlie, I tell you. I just got a Stannah stairlift fitted in master Skywalker’s townhouse, so I could get up and down the stairs. I completely forgot I could just fly up and down anytime I liked.”)

C-3PO: Well, go on then, you stupid bucket of bolts.

[R2-D2 flies off, going vertically straight up until out of view. C3P-O waits patiently and quietly. Another ten minutes pass before R2-D2 returns.]

C-3PO: Well?

R2-D2: Bleep tweet (“Well what?”)

C-3PO: Well, the sun has nearly gone down and we’re still outside, that’s what. Did you see anything?

R2-D2: Beep (“I did have a pretty good view from up there. But it’s mostly desert round here.”)

C-3PO: Was there a window? Is anyone in?

R2-D2: Bleep-tweep. Beep. (“Oh sorry. I completely forgot about that. I just got carried away flying around for the first time in years. Let me go have a look again.”)

[As R2 is about to take-off, the doors start to open. A Gamorrean, a green-skinned cross between a pig and a human, comes out. It wears a wide-brimmed hat, carries a shopping bag and leans on a walking cane. After closing the door, it takes out a key and careful turns it in the lock. Then it turns, noticing the droids for the first time.]

Garmorrean: (Startled, speaking in a high pitch female-falsetto voice) Ooh, you gave me a fright. You shouldn’t creep up on people like that. I was just going to do me shopping.

R2-D2: Beep-tweet (“We’re here to see Jabba the Hutt.”)

Garmorrean: I’m sorry, I don’t understand beep-beep talk, deary. Speak-a-dee-ING-LISH?

C-3PO: I speak English, ma’am.

Garmorrean: Well, how can I help you then?

C-3PO: We want to speak to Jabba the Hutt.

Garmorrean: What’s that? I’m a bit hard of hearing, duck.

[C-3PO awkwardly ducks for cover as if somebody might be firing at him.]

C-3PO: Oh no!! Are we in danger?

Garmorrean: No deary. ‘Duck’ is a colloquial form of address. I thought you said you spoke English?

C-3PO: It must be one of the dialects I’m not so familiar with.

Garmorrean: Well, I can’t stop here chatting all day. The shops close in half an hour. (She looks at the setting sun.) And I don’t want to be carrying my groceries home with those cheeky sandpeople about, neither. Last time they pinched me choccy digestives, they did. Went right up to my bag and grabbed it off the top, then ran away on one of those fast-moving Bantas of theirs. I’m too old to chase after them these days, I tell you ducky.

C-3PO: Very good, but I assure you we have no interest in chocolate-covered snacks designed to accompany a pot of tea. We’re here to see Jabba the Hutt.

Garmorrean: Shabba the mutt? We don’t keep any dogs.

C-3PO: Jabba the Hutt.

Garmorrean: Abba the Zutt? Sounds like a rock band.

C-3PO: (Shouts) Jabba the Hutt!

Garmorrean: Pat on the butt? Ooh, cheeky! I’m too old for all that. (She points at C-3P0’s nether regions with her cane) And it doesn’t look like you’re fitted with all the parts I need, either.

C-3PO: (Shouts as loud as he can) Jabba the Hutt!!! We want to see Jabba the Hutt!!!

Garmorrean: Oh, it’s Jabba the Hutt you want to see, is it? He’s so lah-dee-dah. Jabba the Hutt. Why doesn’t he just call himself Jabba? Everyone can see he’s a Hutt. He’s thirty-foot round and slithers like a great fat greasy snail. Then again, I suppose calling himself ‘the Hutt’ helps to distinguish him from Jabba the Jawa, Jabba the semi-human, and Jabba the we’re-not-quite-sure-what-he-is-but-we-know-we-don’t-much-like-the-look-of-it.

C-3PO: Is he in?

Garmorrean: Who?

C-3PO: Jabba the Hutt!!!

Garmorrean: You’ve come to the wrong address, deary. His house is in the next rocky escarpment over. (She points with her cane in the direction of the setting sun.)

R2-D2: Bleep-tweet (“I said we should have checked on Google Maps before setting off.”)

C-3PO: (Raises his hand to his eyes, to shield them from the light.) I can’t see any escarpment.

Garmorrean: That’ll be because it’s over the horizon.

C-3PO: (Disappointed.) Oh. So it’s a long walk then?

Garmorrean: I should say so. Three days by foot. Come to mention it, how did you get out here in the first place?

C-3PO: We took a taxi from Mos Eisley.

Garmorrean: Oh, those taxi drivers. I bet you hailed an illegal cab, didn’t ‘cha? None of them know where they’re going. It’s lucky he took you to me and not to one of those droid recycling centres run by the Jawas. It’s late now. Not safe for you to go walking about on your own. Tell you what, if you come with me and help carry me shopping, tomorrow morning I’ll give you a lift over to Jawa’s in my landmoderater.

C-3PO: Your landmoderator? What’s that?

Garmorrean: It’s like a landspeeder but for people who don’t want to get a fine for going too fast. They’ve stuck a load of cameras up in the last twelve months, and I can’t afford to pay a bleedin’ ticket each time I go to the shops.

R2-D2: Whistle-bleep (“Silly old bag. Come, let’s help her with her shopping before we seize rigid from listening to her boring conversation.”)

Garmorrean: (Strikes R2-D2 with her cane.) Cheeky!

R2-D2: Beep-bleep (“I thought you said you didn’t speak beep-beep language!?”)

Garmorrean: That’s right, but I can tell when a naughty little garbage can like you is giving me some trash talk!

R2 and ’3PO did not get very far, did they? Perhaps they will do better in the next installment of the Parallel George Lucasverse…

I was caught between a matinee and a dinner date, milling around the backstreets of London. My desultory early evening meandered like my walk until sharply interrupted by the crack of thunder and the most severe of rain showers. With no umbrella to protect me, necessity blindly led me to the nearest doorway arch. In my hurry for cover, I must have inadvertently leaned against the entranceway. Much to my surprise, the brightly painted door fell open, and I found myself stumbling inside, looking down a gloomy corridor. Recomposing myself, I only then noticed the hand-written poster attached to the door’s outside,

Tonight’s Lecture:

“Misanthropes of the World, Unite!”

given by Claire Z. Perkins.

Begins 6pm

Light refreshments will be served during the break.

From the gloom, someone beseeched, “come on, she’s started already.” Not desirous to suffer any more of the downpour, and with a good hour to spare before that night’s rendezvous, I took up the implicit offer and made my way in.
“Don’t forget to close the door,” implored the seemingly disembodied voice.
“Oh, sorry,” I replied, and shut it behind me, though the latch was still up to permit entry for any other wandering wastrels. With the door closed, turning to progress inside, there was nary a glimmer of light to guide my way. I momentarily hesitated. Should I reach out my arms, and feel my way along the walls to compensate for the effective loss of vision? Then, the far end of the corridor was revealed, as a small bent-over figure opened the door to a brightly-lit room ahead. The figure turned briefly and was proven to be my previously unseen yet earnest encourager, by reiterating in a hoarse whisper: “come on, come on, we’re missing the lecture!”

By the time I reached the end of the corridor, my hunched hallway host was no longer in view, and glancing around, I could not fathom where he or she had gone. Indeed, I had not been able to determine his or her gender, but the assembled audience in the hall appeared to be an even mix of men and women, races and socio-economic classifications. The huddled entreater had exaggerated. The lecture had not yet begun. Instead, a shabbily dressed fellow with a goatee beard was giving an extended introduction of the speaker, the Claire Z. Perkins promised by the poster. My first instinct was to sit on one of the chairs in the back row, in case I needed to depart for the restaurant before the lecture’s end. Finding the back row to be completely full, I was forced to sit alone on the other row, the front row. As the introduction droned on, I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake and would soon be making an awkward exit. The room was quite small, but the ceiling was extraordinarily high. I wondered if it had perhaps been the chimney for a forge of some description. The speakers stood on a modest platform raised a mere foot higher than the floor. The back row audience was maybe a dozen strong. In such circumstances, there was no prospect of leaving inconspicuously. Looking around over my shoulder, I then noticed that there was a tiny gallery above us, and a further gallery above that. Upon entering, the opened door must have hidden the stairway up. Making eye contact, an elderly lady gave me a thumbs up from the top gallery, and I surmised she had been the one to urge my entry.

The introduction over, Claire Perkins strode to the front of the stage, and was greeted with polite applause. She was an impressive woman in her mid-thirties, smartly dressed in business attire, wearing a pink jacket with three-quarter length sleeves and standing almost six foot in height with the benefit of the heels on her boots. Without the need for amplification or notes, she confidently began:

“Misanthropes of North London, persons to which I have no familial connection, whether literal or metaphorical – although it is accurate if rather pedantic to assert that we all have a common ancestor if we go far enough back in time – thank you for coming to my lecture today. I shall keep it brief, and dispense with further pleasantries, as time is short, and I know you’d rather be at home with a good book instead of rubbing shoulders with each other today. We are not comrades, nor shall we ever be, but we do have something in common. As members of the species homo sapiens, we are all blighted by a common enemy. When talking of humankind’s common enemy, I am of course referring to every other extant member of the species homo sapiens. As the saying goes, we our own worst enemies, by which I mean not that the individual cannot be friend to themself, but that we are each our sole friend, as all others are engaged in ruthless competition for finite resources. That this is true should be evident enough to anyone who has ever seen the throngs amass for the New Year’s sales, or to those of you who came here today by means of the London Underground.

Our ravenous animalkind presently number nearly seven billion. Indeed, estimates suggest our ranks shall have grown by thirty even during the time it takes to give this talk. They say that every person is connected by no more than six degrees of separation, and we misanthropes understand that means there’s an awful lot of people we’d rather be separated from by another twenty or thirty degrees, if not also by a stout wall and preferably a moat too. Not since the great plague has there been any significant diminution in our species. All the shells fired and bombs dropped during the great world wars of the last century merely slowed the human explosion, which today goes on unabated. Advances in the technology of mass murder between nations have been more than offset by progress in medical science and general prosperity, creating an unsustainable quotient of fecundity. Whilst dreamers may imagine a future where we find living space amongst the stars – and I know there are some amongst us who would gladly live alone on their own planet, to the extent that they do so in their mind, if not reality – it takes the combined industrial efforts of millions to send a paltry few of our kind to our nearest celestial cousin, the moon. There will be no lifeboats capable of taking enough of us to the solar system before our Earth has sunk. In just two hundred thousand years, less than a blink of an eye to our Mother Nature, our race has come out of Africa and settled in near enough every habitable nook and cranny of our world, and indeed in many that would be uninhabitable were it not for central heating, irrigation, desalinated water or air conditioning. But even with such advances, we’ve yet to perfect a more artful way of quieting the floor-shaking bass of the people who live upstairs than by banging the ceiling with a broomhandle. If present circumstances are allowed to continue, our world will be completely overrun in less than two hundred years, never mind another two hundred thousand. When this happens, we will all, quite literally, be forced to listen to the racket made by our noisy neighbours until late at night except for that small interregnum when they turned it down because the Police came round.

What then, are we to do? Some have already seen the light. The communist tyrants of China have mercifully quelled the reproductive instincts of their countrymen. Repressing a fifth of humanity is a good start, but nowhere near enough if we’re to be spared ever longer queues at the supermarket when doing our weekly shop. Whatever good the Chinese communists have achieved is likely to be undone by the outdated teachings of the Catholic Church and other institutions that profess a love for the quantity of life over the quality of life. Jesus may love a sinner, but he doesn’t have to sweep up the mess when the estate kids spend the night drinking cider by the children’s play area. State doctors are selfishly stamping out the remaining self-selecting methods of pleasurable extermination, like smoking, a form of recreation that should be avidly encouraged for everyone of the age of twelve years and up. Those paid to enforce Health and Safety pay scant regard to the consequences of reducing the risk of fatal injury when accidents might otherwise play a useful and Darwinian role in weeding out the reckless oafs that litter our gene pool. The potential beneficial effects of sports like snowboarding and cycling are muted by an excessive obsession with helmets and other safety clothing, rendering them significantly less dangerous than a football kick-about in the 1970′s Leeds United style. On many fronts, the battle to end the expansion of human life is being lost. We must get into the habit of inhibiting our population growth. If we don’t, our lack of inhibition will leave everywhere inhabited, and with everywhere inhabited we’ll all feel very inhibited.

In our Western society, we have followed a reasonably effective approach to calming the birth rate. Decimating the extended family unit whilst educating women and giving them jobs in the workplace has done wonders for discouraging and delaying the intelligent girl’s desire to have babies. This is a helpful trend, but a palliative instead of a cure. In the final reckoning the desire to reproduce is just too strong to be overcome this way. Our animal impulses, when combined with a few pints of strong lager or a bottle of chardonnay, tends to get the better of us. Combine this instinct with the zesty pleasure of sexual relations and too few can be expected to resist inevitable temptation.”

At the mention of ‘sexual relations’ Claire Perkins stared at me directly, as if with knowledge of my hopes for later that night, and with a most accusatory gaze. I felt uncomfortable, and crossed my legs.

“I am not going to suggest we engage in large-scale cullings. I am not barbarous, though I fear the human race will make life cheap if too plentiful. Perhaps in some grim future, when our numbers are simply too many, humanity will turn to such extreme methods as cannibalism, or – dare I say – recurring mercenary visits from Jehovah’s Witnesses to drive their neighhours away and hence obtain some peace and quiet. This will be because our leaders lack the foresight of all you who have chosen to join me here today. It is our burden to devise and implement the humane methods that can address the problems of population growth, before the world descends into chaos, and every street becomes an endless traffic jam of modified Ford Fiestas blaring out hardcore techno at well in excess of one hundred beats per minute whilst the cars crawl forward at something less than one mile per hour. For those of who would prefer to live a quiet life some thousand miles from our nearest neighbour, there are only so many lighthouse-keeping jobs. We’re looking for alternatives to an otherwise inevitable maelstrom of gangland warfare and hand-to-hand combat with anarcho-nihilists who have set up a squat next door. Regrettably, the weapons of mass destruction are too crude to be effectively used in the husbandry of the human race. We must look for a middle way between the scenarios where our kind is all, or nothing. Eugenics is prone to corruption. Given the condition of our leaders, selective breeding is more likely to propagate a race of morons with the Hapsburg Jaw than any sort of master race. Tony Blair’s choice of a mating partner is proof enough of that. Voluntary abstinence is ineffective too. Who would abstain except people like you and I? And if we don’t teach our children the dangers of population growth, then who will? I myself have six children, and all are well schooled in the dangers of overpopulation. In order to best balance the scales, it is we, the misanthropes, who must breed most prodigiously, despite the inevitable and uncomfortable toll it takes on the woman’s body. Indeed, we women misanthropes must remain especially strong, so as not to be cowed into the dominion of the irresponsibly multiplying hordes. If my figure appears firm and proud,”

at this, Claire Perkins seemed to stand even straighter, an impression hard to fully convey when her posture had hitherto been almost military in its erectness. As if instructed to do so, I looked her up and down. Her forearms looked very much firm and toned, and her bosom was undeniably proud. Perhaps I stared too obviously at her bosom for someone sitting a mere yard away, because she looked me hard in the eye, as before. I responded by smiling with the most intellectually-engaged, least erotically-interested smile I could muster. She continued,

“it is only because of the strict regimen of diet and exercise I have adopted after every birth. Such is the toll that new life demands of the old.”

By the end of this last sentence, Claire Perkins was again looking at me. I supposed that the gentlemanly thing to do was to somehow convey that she did not look in the least bit old. This I attempted by retaining the basic shape of my intellectually-engaged not erotically-interested smile, but with the modification of slightly curling one corner of my mouth. With the benefit of hindsight, I doubt it worked.

“No, the misanthropes cannot win this war with an exiguous army. We must win by tilting the scales in our favour. This brings me to the modest proposal that I wish to share with you all today. We need a scheme that dampens the reproductive rate of our people, whilst offering no barrier to the pleasures of free sex and hence freely-transmitted diseases. Authoritarian methods of population management like licensing, permits, financial inducements and penalties could be an option, but they would all be problematic to enforce and difficult to police in a free society. Instead, we should turn the free society in our favour, by freely giving the gift of birth control. All of us, I am quite sure, has heard of fluoridation of water. Across the world, one in fifteen people benefits from the supply of fluoridated tap water. The benefits are clearly measured in reduced tooth decay. I ask you today, if we can alter tap water to protect our teeth, why not do so to protect our very quality of lives, and return this world to a sustainable balance between people and nature? Medical science knows of several compounds that, if added to drinking water, would temporarily, but reversibly, inhibit fertility. Should a couple still wish to procreate, the choice would be clear – imbibe only bottled water. Those with the discipline and resources to go to the shops and purchase a weekly twelve-pack of Tesco’s Value Highland Spring would still be able to have children, whilst the rest will peaceably start to contribute to the reigning in of our out-of-control species. Imagine the difference such a policy would have made to serial procreators like Tony Blair and his wife Cherie, though his sins are mitigated by all that carnage he initiated in Iraq. Tap water delivery of contraceptives would be perfectly fair. Put simply, it relies on the proven worth of apathy. Sheer sloth ensures that number of people who opt in to any choice is always lower than the number that would not opt out of the same choice. In this case, people may opt out of drinking tap water, or using it to brush their teeth, or using it to water their vegetable garden. Or, they may simply rationalize that turning on the tap is a kind of charity to their fellow man, and may console themselves with the double savings of cheaper household bills and avoiding the cost of bringing up a child. And if you don’t think the neighbours are being careful enough, be sure to invite them over for a barbeque and be sure to add lots of refreshing ice to the Pimm’s and lemonade.

We, the misanthropes, have nothing in common but our own selfish interests, and in this respect we have the same selfish interests as everyone else except we’re more sensible about them. Only we can see the way through the present tragedy of abundant fertility to the inevitable conclusion of a worse life for each and every one of us. A little rationing of the right things does more good than harm, and that is all I am asking for. It is rational to ration what we have too much of. In contrast, it is irrational, and dare I say rash, to ration the means of rationing. Instead of rationing prophylactics – too unreliable a method for a world where people are expected to pay for them, Catholics oppose their use and even a Primeminister’s wife is too giddy to reliably use them – we should be rationing children. And the best way would be to start with everyone receiving free and plentiful contraceptives in every glass of water, and asking them to make an informed and proactive choice if they wish to opt out of universal birth control. Thank you everybody for listening. Now I understand we will be having a short break. Afterwards, I will be back on stage to explain how we can work together and lobby for this essential public health policy, and then we’ll have a brief question-and-answer session.”

Glancing down at my watch, it was nearly time for me to leave for my date. On my way out, I politely declined the offer of a cup of tea from the same elderly lady who had earlier beckoned me in. It was still raining outside. Later at the bistro, just to be on the safe side, I ordered a large bottle of Evian.