Hamish Champ: How many days have I got left???

A friend of mine sent me one of those 'find out your life expectancy' survey things last week.

It was one of those online doo-dahs, seemingly from the US of A. One had to answer questions on subjects like life satisfaction, the amount of exercise one did on a daily basis, how many prescription drugs one took and whether one had the odd heart-stopping moment, all in order to suss how much longer one was for this world.

I was all set to consign it to the 'recycle bin' on the desktop of my PC when curiosity got the better of me. "Dammit, I'll do it!" I thought.

After completing the 34 page survey - it sounds a lot but it only took two minutes - the results of my life expectancy assessment blinked up onto the screen.

Having admitted to things like my true alcohol intake; my somewhat sedentary lifestyle and the fact that I can be a right miserable bastard a not inconsiderable amount of the time, it turns out that my biological age is 48, which is spot on.

Worryingly though, the results suggested that my life expectancy is what I regard as a paltry 75.7 years.

I'm not sure what the 0.7 bit refers to, but then this is a mystery of low-grade proportions. What grabbed my attention was the number of days I have left on this planet; the survey helpfully told me I had 10,100 remaining.

Which got me wondering. What do I want to do with the time a team of American scientists - or more likely a bunch of marketing scamsters working out of a 1970s office block in Ft Lauderdale, Fl., - reckon to have given me?

Obviously I can't go into the more, er, 'grown-up' type stuff, as this would merely offend those with nervous dispositions. But along with the more publishable ambitions, such as riding a motorcycle across the Mojave desert at sunset and writing a successful novel that then becomes a hit film starring John Cusack, I'd like to run a pub.

Yep, good ol' Champ wants to be 'mein host'. Whodathoughtit? Now I can see the fans among my regular readership rubbing their hands with the sort of glee Robespierre reserved for aristos as they made their way to the guillotine in those wobbly tumbrel things.

"Oh Chump," my public will doubtless opine, pithily, "you really have NO idea!"

And they'd be right. I absolutely have no idea what it is like to run a pub. Of all the hospitality trades it seems to be the hardest of all. You've got to be businessman/woman; host; employer; liaison officer; doctor; friend; strategist; therapist; counsellor; cook; drinks expert and harbinger of all manner of opinions and reflector of many more.

In these troubled economic and political conditions the idea of running a boozer is anathema to many, given what has to be put up with day in, day out. Some of you even take the time to comment on thepublican.com​ that that's it, you've had enough, you're off.

I can understand many have had their fill of this industry and for their own reasons want no more of it.

But in these tough times I'm glad there are still people who get up every day to serve, literally, in this great business and that despite all the crap that gets thrown at you, you do such a great job. And that's something to aspire to, even for an old cynic like me.

And there, see? I didn't even mention the smoking ba…