You can't beat the Welsh, can you? Twenty-two Local Health Boards giving money via block contracts to about a dozen hospitals.

And more beds per capita that a quiet afternoon in a Silent Night showroom. And what's more, due to their appalling waiting lists, the patients all hop over Offa's Dyke to Herefordshire the second that they need any treatment. (I'm sure that's not fair: some no doubt pop over the Severn Bridge to Bristol or Bath. In fact, I expect that there's a Local Health Board responsible for that lovely new bridge and its pristine toiledau).

But given that we stole their coal, their steel and their water, I suppose the least that we can do is give them a helping hand up the waiting list before sending them back home to recuperate for a few weeks in one of those lovely empty beds.

And I could, of course, have had a pop at our equally culpable kilt-wearing brethren north of Hadrian's Wall, but given Mr Murray's recent exploits, we're all Scottish now, Innate McPrejudice included.

All of which would be fine if it wasn't for the fact that it's my English taxes that are funding their free nursing care and prescriptions when they ought to be spent on the regeneration of Weston-super-Mare and Fleetwood in their post-pier eras.

Which leads me to conclude that we should surely be using the consultation on the NHS constitution to reconcile these West Lothian questions that confound our so-called National Health Service. So come on, my Celtic chums, are you in or are you out? For as the great Winnie the Pooh would have it, you can't have your penny and the bun.

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