Beware the Solpadeine police in this nanny state of ours

Thou shalt not kill’. I’m sure that hidden beneath a rock at the foot of Mount Sinai is a little caveat to this law. It would read something like: 'Unless, of course, thou art suffering with the most excruciating headache and the creature standing before thee is holding a box of Solpadeine and is refusing to sell it to thee. Then, my child, go forth and do whatever thou damn well want with this agent of Satan.’ I, myself, encountered one of these demonic beings a couple of weeks ago, and I can honestly say that I could easily have choked it and not felt one iota of guilt. In fact, I would have spent the rest of my life reliving - with relish - every pleasurable second of the experience. You must understand, it was not a sudden attack of conscience or anything of the sort that made me control myself. No…the only deterrent was the 6ft 4in security guard pacing up and down by the pharmacy counter and one of those pesky CCTV cameras - the type of device used by normal people to observe lunatics, and by lunatics to observe normal people. All this happened because I am of such weak character and unsound mind, apparently, that I am considered incapable of deciding for myself what type of analgesic works best on my own body. I can feel the pain - of that I am sure. But the strangest thing is that, although I always thought that Solpadeine was the only medicine that eased my migraines, that seemingly is not the case after all. And the tablets that I always found useless actually do make me feel better. Oh dear. The instant I made eye-contact with the woman behind the counter, I knew she didn’t like me, and I didn’t bother trying to endear myself to her either. She looked like one of those pedantic, judgmental little women who live very regimented lives. “Yes,” I thought, “I bet every night you lay out your perfectly-ironed clothes on the bed, all ready and organised for the next day. And every morning they are in precisely the same position.” So, I politely asked for a 24-pack of soluble Solpadeine…please. I just made her day - finally she got to exercise that bit of power that some equally sadistic, politically correct law had given her. Seemingly, when we now ask for medicinal products containing codeine, we Irish adults now have to listen to a lecture on the addictive dangers of the stuff; we will then be offered an alternative and, like good little boys and girls, we are to be grateful that we have just been saved from ourselves. This love-child of Mussolini and a rabid pit-bull then proceeded to ask me if I had tried Anadin, Panadol or Nurofen. By now, half my head was numb and the other half was throbbing with pain. “Yes, yes,” I said. “I have tried every one of them - on their own, together and in worryingly large doses. Now, unless you have a few Es and a bottle of vodka, will you just give me the damn Solpadeine…please.” Eventually, I managed to get a 12-pack of non-soluble tablets from the pharmacist who intervened in the interest of public safety, but by now I didn’t really care anymore. The pain of a migraine was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared with the agony of listening to such condescending, insulting garble. From now on, I will just take my chances with whatever medicine is on offer over the internet. It doesn’t matter what it’s mixed with - rat poison, rat droppings, minced up rat testicles - all are infinitely more appealing than the Solpadeine she-devil. Later on, I was having dinner with some old school-friends, one of whom has been living in Australia for the last 20 years when they began talking about how they had each given up smoking. One hadn’t smoked in two years and the other had quit four months ago. They were reminiscing about the time they used to smoke behind the woodwork room where the nuns would never catch them. “Jaysus, I’d love a fag,” said she who had just cooked us dinner. Seconds later, the front door banged closed and this girl who never owned a pair of running shoes or donned a swimsuit in her life sprinted past the window like some steroid-fuelled sub-Saharan sprinter. Five minutes later, she reappeared, savaging open a packet of cigarettes and ripping the kitchen apart for a match. The pair of them lit up, sat back and poured a glass of wine “to wash it down”. They spent the next hour giving each other tips on how best to quit smoking with the sprinter even gifting the Aussie (a lecturer on women’s mental health, no less) with a packet of Nicorette which she swears “are just fantastic”. She thinks this chewing gum is the best thing ever - except, that is, for the times she wakes up and still has a piece in her mouth, but that’s OK because then she doesn’t have to bother getting out of bed for another one. God, it’s good to be around normal people.