I grew up rowing, sailing and swimming in the river, spending boozy nights by bonfires on the sandy strand at Nacton, and the very stones of the streets between the Woolpack and the Greyhound have been worn to grooves by my boots. I had my first flat in the town, and we could be seen on each Friday afternoon carrying a firkin of Tolly from the Dove back home, to settle, ready to drive the tap and spile on Saturday for the weekend. Yes, two or three of us would polish off a firkin in the dull hours of Saturday and Sunday afternoons when the pubs were closed. We may have inadvertently exceeded our permitted units under the new Health laws.
So I take exception to some primitive zealot who wipes his arse with his hand plotting to aim an A320 at the Butter Market. Now it's personal.