A marmite sarnie

WORD reaches me that my little friend Bram is trying his hardest to wind up the female population of south Wales. Forget political correctness and women's lib, Bram still believes there is a place in the world for the good old Male Chauvinist Pig.
I have heard from two reliable sources that, while out drinking with some of his Celtic newspaper 'harem', he revealed that he secretly marks them out of 10. I'm not quite sure what criteria he uses but I imagine brains, personality and conversation come well down the list. Of course, the ladies in question immediately demanded to know the marks he had given them. And like the brave soldier he is, Bram refused point blank to tell them.
What I really want to know is: How many marks do they give the roly poly Andy Capp lookalike?

With less than a month before the pub smoking ban hits Wales, I have been spending every minute of my spare time in the hostelries of Cardiff, puffing away like a steam train crawling its way to the top of a very tall mountain.
Bram and my mate Pete are now trying, rather too late it appears to me, to muster a protest. Bram's best idea seems to be a pub blockade where he gets all his mates to turn up at the Old Scroat or some such establishment, light up as one, then walk out when they are asked to leave. Yeh, that'll work.

To be honest, my late night forays around the pubs have curtailed my cooking of late. In fact, the most substantial evening meal I have had for about four days involved a marmite sandwich on some very chunky bread. Normal service will be resumed as soon as my liver tells me it's time to take a break from the booze.