I say, Old Chap

The Mother Country has erased guns (and working hard on pen knives), so there is no crime. Smoking in pubs is a criminal act, so London lungs are pretty pink.  But they face a new terror, AP reports today.

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?