Cigarettes don't kill people, religious hatred does

The British government and I don’t coincide very often. But this week it appears that I’ve developed a psychic link with our friends in Westminster.

Just as Tony Blair was enduring a pasting from backbenchers over the Religious and Racial Hatred Bill, I was in a similar pickle. Cardiff County Council’s media manager was giving me a right royal ear-bashing for my "cavalier attitude towards inflaming racial tensions in Cardiff.”

My crime? Brandishing a placard reading “Foreigners Out”? Running rampant through a mosque with my shoes on? No, daring to publish an article revealing that a Belgian newspaper which came out in support of the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten had received threats from an e-mail address belonging to Cardiff Council.

Never mind the fact that they shouldn’t have allowed it to happen in the first place. Nor the strikingly obvious fact that local authorities should not seek to impose restrictions on the press. No, the fault was all mine and if there was rioting on the streets of Butetown, then I would be held solely responsible.

Once that ‘furore’ had died down, Westminster and I were back in sync over smoking. No sooner had the anti-smoking Bill passed by a landslide than I was plastering my very first Nicorette patch onto my arm. As dyed-in-the-wool smokers brave the freezing cold temperatures outside the pub next year, I shall be happily absorbing my nicotine fix in comfort over a pint.

Mind you, I should be wary of hubris. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to give up. But this time, following some respected advice, I went to my GP and asked for his help. No more cold turkey for me, I decided, too much risk of bird flu.

The doc was a real help. An ex-smoker himself, he knew exactly what I was up against. He even raised a smile by saying, “Smokers are denying that they’re going to get cancer like there’s no tomorrow.” Priceless. A week later and i'm still on the wagon, though slightly bemused as to what everyone else does when they want to avoid working.

So, how to maintain this spectacular run of synchronisation with Westminster? Well, next week I shall be turning my flat into a Trust Dwelling, in which local businesses, synagogues, mosques and community action groups will be invited to run all of my day-to-day living arrangements. I will also be inviting Ruth Kelly in, who will no doubt tell me that you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

I haven’t the heart to tell her that I think Opus Dei is rather silly.