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May 29, 2008 00:55

Good news!  I've solved the pensions crisis!  And the world economic slowdown!  And the oil crisis!   That as well!  Aren't I good?!

Honestly, I get one week off work and without even getting to Thursday I've already pretty much fixed the Western world. I'll have cracked the Zimbabwe elections by Friday lunchtime.  It's a shame it's my birthday on Saturday and I'll be busy (i.e. pissed) over the weekend or I'd probably get perpetual motion boxed off as well.

You're probably wondering what I've come up with to solve pretty much everything that's bothering Britain these days.  Well, I'll get round to that in a minute.  In the meantime- a question:

Which is the superior gender?

Dangerous turf eh?  It's frankly reckless to invoke this sort line of questioning- especially at the point in these posts where I usually start banging on about The Battle of Hastings or Prince.  But I think it's worth treading all over this particular theological minefield for one simple reason.  Something needs to be said.

Men are better than women.  We're superior in every way.

I know, I know- it's very easy to make a case for women as the finer sex because, even discounting their physically aesthetic advantages, they're rarely responsible for wars, death and destruction; they seldom get bogged down by trivia, geekdom and sport and they're much more in tune with emotion, feelings and listening.  Though, let's be honest, it's possible to make a case for the lionising of the male gender for pretty much the same reasons.  We're unlikely to ever get anything done if we aren't willing to fight for it, aren't willing to figure out the minutae with near-psychotic obsession and are all to willing to be distracted by Claire who's just broken up with that bastard from accounts and needs her mates to come round and watch 'Bridget Jones Diary'.  Or Eurovision.

And when men do get round to making and creating things the world becomes, generally, a better place for it.  When womankind finally tried her hand at the fascinating world of discovery- Marie Curie discovered radiation which killed her husband, then her then helped Oppenheimer invent the H Bomb.  She finally ended up giving her name to a cancer charity which, frankly, is nowhere near as cool as getting a statue dedicated in your honour like any decent bloke would.

Women also live longer than men (probably because men kick the bucket sooner as they're all tired out from achieving stuff) and that means they're the lion(esse's) share of the C4 explosive in the pensions timebomb that, apparently, is due to go off any minute now.
  Essentially, thanks to the wonders of medical science, we're all living too long these days so there isn't enough money in either the state or companies to support us in our retirements.  Everyone from my generation is going to have to work till they're about 120 years old then spend another few decades in utter squalor while slowly recreating that Nazi face melting at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

And yet, the news every day is full up with warnings about what can kill us. There's the obvious ones- smoking, drinking, eating razorblades, the usual- but there also seems to be hardly a second goes by without something new being responsible for giving us cancer.  There's been cheese, mobile phones, deodorants and asprin in recent years to name a few- a list so varied it's staggering to think we can get through a day without a gigantic tumour growing out of our heads and killing us stone dead.

This is confusing.

On one hand, we're being cursed for living too long and crippling the economy and on the other hand, we're constantly being told how to survive well into a thrid century by living a pious lifestyle, drinking organic water and going to bed before Deal or No Deal.  Surely the best way to solve the crisis brewing over pensions would be to keep every potential danger to our well-beingsecret whilst simultaneously encouraging the populous to smoke cheese and drink their mobiles.  And why stop there- if someone's suffering in a hospital from some ungodly illness, why use medicine to bring them back from the brink when we can get them charlied off their nuts and give them the send off they deserve- high as a kite with not a care in the world beyond alphabetising their CDs and fucking anything that moves.

If pubs sold skag as well as Stella, if smoking was not just encouraged but compulsary and if everyone's diet consisted of the sorts of food which are unhealthy yet supremely tasty for no other reason that there is a God and he hates us; then the world would be a much, much better place.  Everyone would be happy and content before courteously popping their clogs before they became too much trouble.

Hell, let's go for the full Logan's Run effect and kill everyone who gets to a certain age.  I'd be nicer than the people in the film though.  Let's say 50 as an age for compulsary termination if you haven't done it to yourself beforehand.  And no jumpsuits.  Though everyone would get the chance to see Jenny Agutter take her clothes off.

That way, if we all merrily debauched ourselves into oblivion before we hit the half century, we'd have no need to spend money on savings or private pensions which would free up countless billions of pounds to reinvigorate the economy.  And we'd all be too mullered to drive so there'd be no need to make petrol from the crude oil which, by weight, currently costs more than Eva Green's breasts.

And there you have it.  If do-gooding scientists would just be quiet and the government got round to actually promoting those very great and extremely fun activities it so routinely warns us against then I'd have solved absolutely everything!

Mind you, it isn't surprising I've thought of such a pioneering and insightful solution.

You see, I'm a man.  It's what we do.
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