Do you know the price of a pint of milk? Go on, quickly, what’s the price of a pint of milk? A pint of milk? A pint of milk. A pint of milk. An imperial measurement of white liquid squirted out of a cow. A pint of it. “But I don’t buy it in pints, I get those two-pint bottles, or four-pinters, or six-pinters.” Not good enough. A pint. A pint. Only a pint. A pint is the only thing that matters. A pint. Do you know what a pint costs? A pint. A pint of milk. A pint. A pint. Milk. A pint of milk.
If you don’t know – no googling now, you’re under pressure, and you must answer immediately – you’re out of touch. A member of the shadowy political elite. Someone who would point out an England flag on a white van. That kind of monster. That kind of evil. That kind of utter scum.
Somewhere, Ed Miliband, or someone like him, is being hothoused on the price of staple goods in imperial measures. A hundredweight of bread. A grain of Ovaltine. A gill of butter. A furlong of Battenberg cake. A fathom of teabags. He is being crammed full of information about yards of cornflakes and fluid ounces of Capstan cigarettes. He must get it right or he is doomed.
Somewhere else, a crumbling white-haired radio presenter is swotting up on these prices, too: he doesn’t actually know them himself; he gets the work experience drone to do that. But the important thing is that he might catch someone out and make them do a silly. A pint of milk. A loaf of bread. A bunch of bananas. Imagine if you got that wrong. Imagine. Imagine not knowing. Imagine.