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Do you remember 1979? Odds are that you don’t because you are either too young or, if old enough, your mind has slowly started to ebb. If you show someone my age a picture of a packet of tasty Tooty Frooties their eyes will light up and they’ll then be able to recall the great Mod revival of the time. It consisted of three songs, one of which was Time For Action by Secret Affair.
“The problem is,” they say, “that there’s not enough information out there – we simply don’t know…” and it is at this point you can cut them off. Rather than there being no research, there is so much of the stuff that it has become impossible to keep on top of it all.
We were there, and it just goes to show the bias in the media that you know nothing about it. We were there with the Beckhams, the Foos and the Biffy Sheeran. They all lied, it wasn’t Corby crowds – they were there for Stealthvape and we have the pictures to prove it. Yes, we were definitely at Glastonbury. Honest.
It was the summer of ’69, but I didn’t know anybody with a porch. “Oh, and when you held my hand - I knew that it was now or never,” sang Bryan Adams. Someone was holding my hand, it was the ambulance lady, and blood was cascading down my face. David Somebodyorother was in too much of a hurry to get out to play, Thatcher hadn’t got her act together, and my face was shoved into a crate of milk bottles.
Following on from last week’s article, it’s clear from the bulging sack the postman showed us that thousands of you agree with our plan to push for TPD III. TPD II is so riven with problems that a brand new approach appears to be the only way forward.
In the 70s, if you were lucky, MI5 would mark you out to be something of a wrong’un and make a folder with your name on the top, with Letraset or a Dymo label maker. Men in hats would hang out near lampposts, black cars would speed off the second you approached them, and Alexei Sayle’s parents would pop round for dinner parties. That’s how people kept tabs on you in the 70s – unless you’d put a Blue Peter time capsule (all about you) in the back garden.
Are you new to vaping? Do you know somebody who has just started using electronic cigarettes? Like a good Dad, we want you to sit on a knee so we can talk to you about sex. No, err, not that – batteries. We want to talk about battery safety. Definitely not anything to do with sex.
The Tobacco Products Directive is like explaining the rules of cricket: The TPD is not the TPD, the old TPD was the TPD before it became the TPD 1. The TPD that isn’t the TPD is actually the TPD 2 because the TPD 1 came and went. Like a band’s difficult second album, TPD1 was rewritten and managed to include more scientific inaccuracies than the film 2012.
This is it, it’s here and there’s no going back. No, not the election result (which is confusing as everybody claims to have won), but the new post-TPD world. There’s a chill wind blowing, dust is kicked up from empty streets – don your protective gear (see last week’s blog for details) and enter the apocalyptic landscape.
“I can not tell a lie,” I said to mother, with no knowledge of trees or axes. “I did not hide those Subbuteo goal posts.” There was an issue, the goal posts weren’t mine and they’d amazingly vanished shortly after my brother argued with me. It was puzzling, the combined minds of Kojak, Columbo and the cast of The Wire were unable to get to the bottom of it.