Every morning, I wake up, I get down on my knees, clasp my hands together, look towards the heavens, and say: “Thank God I don't live in the Ukraine.”
With all respect to the citizens thereof, the place seems to inhale pollution and exhale misery.
The latest intelligence reveals they've been growing tobacco for cigars in the contaminated fields surrounding the Chernobyl power plant, scene of a catastrophic nuclear accident in 1986 and still unhappily toxic.
Mafia-style smugglers are selling the cigars to innocent boobies in equally benighted Bulgaria and Romania. It's said every puff is deadly. I hate to be controversial in a newspaper column but, really, I'm not in favour of this sort of thing at all.
There may be many things wrong with Britain, Ireland and whatnot, but at least our cigarettes are healthy and pure.