Last week on British television we were treated to the views of the President of the National Rifle Association on the merits of - as Jim would no doubt put it - arming the populace against the infringements of its liberties by an overweening government. It's rather easy in these backwaters of parliamentary democracy to fall behind modern thinking in regard to political rights & originally I'd thought it something of a drawback to have the death rate by gunfire increased by several hundred fold when compared with our own rather cissyish figures here in Western Europe. However, the longer he spoke & the more I thought about it the more I began to realise the advantages of a greater access to guns. To start with, the pack of bastards who are forever taking away my money for what they call 'taxes' would think twice if they knew they were going to have to confront a couple of Spandaus at the end of my driveway. And the cops - the ones that in this country go by the pretentious title of Gardai Siochana - might be less keen to haul me up on their endless 'speeding' charges if they had reason to suspect I had the old Ouzi in the glove compartment. The same might go too for those shitty traffic wardens. (God, I can hardly wait to see their faces when I put out my hand to accept one of their bloody tickets & at the same time pull back the jacket to reveal just the butt of the Biretta in the belt.) Yes. Once I was blind. But now I see. For which I have to thank the kindly old cove who set me thinking. Heston, I believe the name was. Some sort of cinematographic actor Johnny. During the two broadcasts that I personally caught, he seemed to be exhibiting on his head the trophies of his favourite sport. One was, by the look of its reddish fur, a dead weasel & the other, more greyish, may have been, I think, an extremely elderly beaver. Grand old bloke. Scottie B.