One Imogen Shillito, shrieksperson for a Brit do-good health organization, is horrified that young masters and their birds can buy Guinness "with their pocket money" ...
(Imogen, My Dear, that is the desiderata, from Liverpool to Smugistan and beyond. You would ask the thirsty to consult a mortgage brokre to finance a pint?)
...The result, she fears, is more rapidly deteriorating Albionic livers.
No. 10 Downing is listening, and throughout the realm serfs and yeomanry ponder dreary demise of the culprit -- happy-hour twofers or threefers or whateverthehell passes for a popskull bargain if you can find a pub in the fog.
Now, science and personal experience agree that the way to take booze is "damned carefully."
But surely somewhere in our common heritage, Imogen, we've concluded that Royal Authority ends short of man's own personal liver. Haven't we?
Does the new nobility of the Sceptred Isle lust for a land where nobody dies? Even if everyone wants to?