I told a story last night. It ended with me biting the sulphur head off a matchstick. The matchstick represented a deposed king, the puppet tyrant of a matchstick army. I gave everyone in the audience their own matchstick to take home, bite the head off and bury deep in the soil. But at the end of the night most matchsticks had been returned unharmed. What’s the matter don’t you like the taste of sulphur?