The widow of a Camel smoker has managed to see her way to an award of 20-odd billion dollars – because RJ Reynolds didn’t ensure he knew that their product could endanger his health.
Now I can only suppose that said smoker lived in a hermetically sealed box for the duration of his ill-fated life, shielded from every other source of information that might possibly have educated him about what his fags often do to smokers, from creating addicts to killing millions. Whatever! He and his wife preferred to play the lottery of life. He lost, she won.
Yes, of course there’ll be an appeal, filling the boots of several hundred more lawyers in the process. She’ll end up with less (but more than any of us could dream of). Nice job, lady. Did you ever ask hubby whether he’d heard any whispers about the risks? Far be it from me to suggest that you were complicit!
PS Mrs J is a life-long smoker. I have no plans to sue in the event of a similar occurrence.
I suppose it was inevitable that as soon as the man on the Clapham routemaster was equipped with electronic extensions to his consciousness and spent the journey to work playing with them, the world of politics would be turned upside-down.
Why would he want to wake up to a portrait of Michael Gove when waiting somewhere in the corridors of power were Cameron’s selection of comely ladies ready to strut the Westminster catwalk?
And what’s more to the political point, why would his counterpart on the Budapest tram prefer Mr. Rumpypumpy to the selfied Helle Kinnnock?
Yes, the trend begun by Ron Reagan all those years ago – whereby the clown became the ringmaster – looks set to gather pace. Never mind the quality, check out the Twitter followers. Sixteen-year-olds will vote, reality stars will rule and whatever else happens, it will be a prettier sight.
He: How are you today?
She: Why do you always ask me that when you know I’d tell you if there was anything wrong?
He: OK, good. I’ll just go and make sure we have enough of everything for when our guests arrive.
She: I’ve already done that – it’s always left to me, as you know.
He: OK, fine. I’m quite looking forward to seeing them again, aren’t you?
She: Actually I wish you’d stopped me inviting them but you didn’t. She’s such a control freak and she leads him around like a poodle. Read more…
I didn’t watch the semi-final. Too late and too many – er – Germans. I dislike the monotonous noise their fans emit when they’re winning – which they did, even though Brazil had God on their bench.
So Brazil still has its coffee and nuts, while my team, Holland, is on track to face Germany in the final, given a fair referee tonight v the diving Argies.
With their being no National Service anymore I have no experience of the military. While I could have enlisted voluntarily I preferred to be a civilian. This doesn’t mean I can’t daydream. And the best place to do this is in the dentist’s chair.
I haven’t been to the dentist for over a year, missing out on two regular six month check-ups. It’s not fear of Dr. Christian Szell that kept me away it was his frontline troops I couldn’t handle; the Checkpoint Charlie receptionists are a dour-faced lot. Read more…
It’s clearly not enough these days for headline-grabbers to wallow in pure celebrity, to model the latest fashions and to pose for the meeja. They must present their own versions of themselves to their breathless fans in case their publicity machines have failed to identify them as they truly are.
Politicians reveal their their grass-roots sensitivities by posing in fast-food caffs and locals, mouths bulging and pints washing down. Not at all what Harold Wilson meant by beer and sandwiches. Starlets go shopping without make-up, carefully under-disguised in caps, track-suits and flip-flops. And sportspeople – where should I begin? Perhaps it is sufficient to record Lewis Hamilton’s pride in being the ‘first black’ F1 champion. Let’s hope his positive racism doesn’t spread into a rash of positive -isms among his peers – the first gay, the first Sikh, the first hæmophiliac. Too much information, as ever.
(I have edited this post in deference to the cherished Royalists among us, realising that such selfism is not the private preserve of monarchs but also practised widely among republican and totalitarian chiefs, notably Vlad Putin.)
If you thought King Carl Gustav of Sweden was a bit of a rogue, then you’ll be forgiven for viewing soon-to-be-ex-King Juan Carlos of Spain in a similar light. And you won’t be surprised that our own beloved Charles could conduct a tripartite marriage himself when all around him were behaving badly towards their spouses.
I suppose it’s the inbred blood that causes it. And all that tedious luxury. But I can’t see the people of Spain giving up their royals – or the Swedes or the Brits for that matter. Never was the phrase ‘the Devil you know’ more accurate or apposite.
Enough of Captain ‘Tubby’ Barosso already, so step forward the likely contenders for Europresident:
Lady first: Fraülein Keller, 32, very very green, hates bankers