With no discernible difference to anyone’s sunlight, twice a year we – The Great British Peoples – screw up the sleeping patterns of animals and young children. Granted we’ve been warned never to work with either however, once their waking hours are up the swanny, there’s precious little chance ours won’t be seriously challenged too.
Every six months we go through the same rigmarole, and every six months – citing everything from farmers to flatulence – from a murky crevice in the campus bowels, up pops a researcher, ready to enthusiastically illuminate us mere mortals as to why we should cease with such archaic practices. And at moments like these, with lightening reflexes, I resume my utter dismay in these Dr Badhair Labcoats of Blandtown Polyversity.
Have they nothing better to do? Have they not noticed the tragic decline of this island’s agricultural industry anyway? Does it really matter if…
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