There's no smoke without fire.

Jersey, The OC of England and my home town, will soon be celebrating the one year anniversary of its much overdue smoking ban.

For the past twelve months, I for one have been spared waking up the morning after the night before with a stonking headache and the added disgust of having to face stumbling into the shower smelling like the inside pocket of a 60-a-dayer. Trust me, trying to get the putrid smell of nicotine out of hair as long and as thick as mine is the last thing you want to do.

But aside from this slight, yet much appreciated alleviation from hellish hangovers, and the added incentive of “smirting,” (the practice of simultaneously smoking and flirting for those that way inclined) has the ban actually made one jot of difference to the wider world?

Local doctors tell us that the number of smokers on the island has dropped to twenty per cent. Ok, so that’s a start. Apparently the number of heart attacks is also on the decrease, especially amongst us passive smokers. Yippee. Meanwhile, more and more families are frequenting pubs and restaurants safe in the knowledge that they are not clogging up their youngsters airways.

Yet if we set aside these rather unsurprising facts and figures and the blatant message that screams “stop smoking and you may not kill yourself quite so quickly,” the ban has actually managed to make life a little more unbearable in some respects.

For one, the frequently inebriated tobacco-toker is now forced to step outside the sweaty, grotty pit of death that is a nightclub in order to have a poisonous puff. Result? The bouncer and his bulging biceps get a great deal more action as the sozzled smoker becomes a tangled mess of tongue-tied slurs and noxious fumes in a bid to prove his manhood or her sobriety and be allowed to stagger back in.

Add to that the inevitable noise that a cluster of cancer-cane addicts creates outside the back door of a watering hole and you have one mad neighbourhood.

But it’s not just a nocturnal nuisance. Need I point out the stagnant carpet of cigarette butts strewn across the pavements during the daylight hours? Or the wall of smoke you have to penetrate when entering any sort of establishment at any time of day? As you desperately try to hold your breath and make a run for it, only to cave in half way along the tunnel of toxic fumes, you probably end up inhaling even more tar than usual.

So, in order to combat this particularly horrendous ban-induced bother, it has just been announced that as from next year, States employees in Jersey will no longer be able to sneak outside every hour or two for a fatal drag on the old sin stick.

Well personally, so long as they are at the back door and not blocking the fire exit, I would much rather they carried on, and that the rest of us able-lunged individuals got awarded the equivalent time wasted as an extra ten day holiday a year.

All I want for Christmas is a Number One.

So Leon did it. Well done him. I’m sure his mum is over the moon. Now, I don’t know about you, but I didn’t know who would top the music charts on Sunday, and neither did I really care. But it seems to me that this annual competition did have a rather worryingly large sector of this barmy nation utterly gripped in festive anticipation.

I was always under the impression that the race for Christmas Number One was a time for any old songster to give it a shot and whip up an irritatingly catchy ditty to flog to the masses. A time when cartoon characters and ageing crooners come back from the dead, hell-bent on reinventing themselves through abysmal pop tunes.

Quite frankly, I just thought it was another one of those over-hyped and over-played musical events to be completely blown out of all proportion. A bit like The X Factor. Although I must admit that as soon as I discovered that Rhydian was Welsh, I suddenly became viciously and patriotically supportive of the white-haired, opera-singing starlet and even considered getting one of those rather unsightly t-shirts.

But why is this show so bleeding popular? It seems that for all its faults, this country does have one major strength, and that is supporting the “talent” of lifeless, wannabe popsters. They can be young or old, fat or thin, singers or screechers. It doesn’t matter. People will still rack up their phone bills to vote for them, sport their hair-dos to copy them and pin up their posters to idolise them.

And of course, good ol’ fashioned, raw talent is bottom of the list. Which is exactly why Rhyd didn’t get it. Oh, that and the fact that he is a relatively normal youngster without the emotional baggage of a suitcase-full of personal disasters worthy of any English soap opera.

But, I hear you cry, Leon has only just started his crooning career whereas Rhydian has been professionally trained! Oh boo hoo. That’s precisely why he’s so damn good. You can actually sit there and watch the Welsh wonder and chill out. You don’t have to be teetering on the edge of your seat, digging your nails into the sofa and squinting tentatively, praying that he hits the right note.

And throughout the show he was just so unbelievably humble. And grateful. And generally just a nice guy. But without getting carried away, there is something about Rhydian, a kookiness and a quirkiness, which could bring a much-needed breath of fresh air into this rapidly stagnating and “same old, same old” pop music industry. These musical talent shows are simply mass-production empires churning out band after band and artist after artist with neither an ounce of individuality nor a smattering of star quality between them.

Yet the beauty of it all is that despite not having seized the X factor crown, the Voice of an Arc Angel will probably end up being ten times more successful than anyone else in the competition. And failing that, he can always marry Miss Jenkins. Or me.

Christmas Unwrapped.

Am I the only one who is somewhat confused, and even slightly shocked by the new Oxfam Unwrapped advert? Now don’t get me wrong, I can see exactly what they are trying to do, but I just don’t really think that it works.

Shipping in the odd A-lister to promote goods seems to be a sure-fire way of success nowadays. So the international charity has roped in an eclectic mix of super stars. We’ve got – in black and white house-style, of course – a sighing, head-shaking Helen Mirren, a rather unemotional and cardigan-clad Will Young, a cackling Helena Bonham-Carter with a Big Mouth Billy Bass and a confused-looking Rob Brydon clutching one of those snorting, shuffling little piggies.

Ok, so an electronic, singing fish does get the idea across; you’d be much better off spending your pennies on a loo for an impoverished African village. But there is something slightly grating, even distasteful, about the way in which it is portrayed.

I’m not against the idea per se, just the way in which it has been packaged. I expect Oxfam ads to be a beautifully crafted mix of dramatic pictures of wide-eyed, swollen-bellied African children which tear at your heart strings and tug at your purse strings. Instead, I get a load of celebrities moaning about the crappy Christmas gifts they’ve been given. It jars.

Also, I really don’t think that the actual concept in itself is going to be much of a hit. Sure, so it’s a wonderful idea on paper. The idea of providing an AIDS-ridden village with a bumper pack of Durex is undoubtedly a fantastic and positive one. And herein lies the appeal.

The giver of the gift will be able to sit back in his leather sofa, guzzling mince pies and slurping snowballs like there’s no tomorrow, or poverty on the other side of the globe for that matter, safe in the knowledge that he has done his bit for mankind.

But then again, in this era of cynicism and scepticism, there are many people who refuse to happily dish out donations to these global charities for fear that that their money would be used to fund the chief executive’s annual holiday to the Seychelles.

Another problem is that Madonna hit the nail on the head. We do live in the most obscenely material world imaginable. Consequently, I cannot help but feel that the receiver of a piece of paper with a picture of a pile of camel dung on the front may be pretty miffed at having missed out on his Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

And another thing. Last year, everyone bought every member of their extended family a goat. And not because of their fertilizer-yielding properties. Oh no. But because they thought they were cute. Subsequently, not only did this cause more harm than good as the cattle mercilessly munched their way through all the African crops, but it also showed just how utterly ignorant the West really is.

Santa’s Ho-down.

Love it or love to hate it, Christmas is well and truly upon us once again.

As a child, I used to get a frisson of festive delight as soon as the Coca-Cola adverts appeared on the telly. But it looks as if Mr Coke may now have to silence his red-suited, red-faced Santa Claus in order not to cause offence.



Father Xmases on the other side of the globe are being banned from saying “ho ho ho.” And for two equally amusing and equally ridiculous reasons.

Firstly, Aussie Santas working in shopping centres have been forbidden from hollering their conventional call of Christmas glee for fear of frightening children to death. Recruitment firm Westaff, which supplies hundreds of Santas around the country, says youngsters may be scarred for life by the aggressive, deep tone of the scary man in the red suit bellowing out this time-honoured greeting.

Nothing at all to do with the fact that they are forced to walk alone into a dark, spooky, little room to sit on a stranger’s lap and ask for a Transformer. God forbid you take sweets from strangers. But it’s perfectly a-okay in today’s world to take budget plastic toys off a potential paedo.

The other reason for toning down the jolly phrase is that it could be seen as offensive and derogatory to women. Now for those of you not up to date with the current parlance of American street slang, “ho” does in fact mean lady of the night. Now do little innocent 6 years olds really know what this means? Actually, they probably do.

As a result of this utterly preposterous proposition, Santas are quitting left, right and centre. The Ebenezer Scrooges of this world are attempting to change something so deeply ingrained in the Christmas tradition simply in order not to offend, scare or provoke. Please.

It seems that being politically correct has become an international obsession. It is at the top of everyone’s agenda, has everyone constantly tiptoeing on eggshells and has, quite frankly, got totally and terribly out of control.

I hope that parents and kids across the sphere stand up against this festive lunacy and let Santa have the last laugh.

Ban the Tan.

So the Government have decided that it might be a good idea to outlaw the use of sunbeds for under 18 year olds, or perhaps prohibit their use altogether. Well about flippin’ time. There are many reasons why I would try anything to restrain anyone from so much as setting foot in a tanning booth, and skin cancer is only one of them.

Firstly, the “you’ve been tangoed” phrase has not been coined as simply a reference to the sickly-sweet, tooth-rotting, stomach-churning fizzy pop. Any A to Z list celeb who has undergone any form of fake tan looks, quite frankly, orange. The colour one’s skin turns when being blasted by toxic rays or smothered in brown paint is about as far from natural-looking bronze as can be.

A particularly tantastic acquaintance of mine has a rather interesting attitude to the phenomenon of the golden complexion. “Sun beds might give you cancer, but you’re gonna die of something, so why not die looking like you’ve just spent a fortnight in the Caribbean?” Well, I doubt she’ll be thinking the same when she’s a 60 year old crinkly facing skin grafts to cure her melanomas and possessing a skin tone a hush puppy would be proud of.

Some may say that everyone is aware of the potential risks of sunbeds, so people should be able and free to use them responsibly. Now, seriously, are the people of this earth able to do ANYTHING responsibly? Facts and figures would beg to differ. Drink responsibly? I don’t think so. Eat responsibly? Definitely not. And don’t even get me started on smoking. So why on earth would people be able to soak up noxious rays responsibly? They wouldn’t.

And another thing. Doesn’t being sun-kissed all year round, come rain or partial shine, take the whole point out of tanning? I’ve always thought it was a way of showing off your bank balance. Beautifully brown equals beautifully minted and living a life scattered with long weekends hopping from one tropical island to another. On a yacht. With Donatella et al. The concept of being ever-brown takes the fun and challenge out of sun bathing.

Oh, and did I mention it can kill you? How can teenage girls, body-obsessed and economically-challenged not want to leap into a tanning booth when they are being advertised on Oxford Street by a rather sullen looking man holding an enormous neon-coloured placard offering five minutes for £5. Stupidly cheap considering it could cost them thousands in the long run when they’ve been diagnosed with cancer.

Of course sunbeds should be banned. I’m utterly perplexed as to how they have been allowed to continue their dastardly deed for so long. Once upon a time, being tanned was considered a mark of poverty because those who basked in the rays of Helios were the plebs, not the prosperous who would remain milky white and cancer free. Ok, so they were also rather obese. But that aside, pale can be pleasing to the eye, just look at the likes of Ms Kidman, Blanchett and Knightley.

I’m the first person to rejoice as soon as the sun comes out to play, but we all need to learn to bathe in its beams sensibly and be pale and proud the rest of the time. Burning these malevolent booths wouldn’t be a bad start. Now, where’s that holiday brochure?

Happy clapping Chinese style.

How difficult can clapping in unison be? Well, the mayor of Beijing has decided that he wants China to be an exemplary model of conduct at the 2008 Olympics and ensure that clapping is at the top of the menu.

It emerged in The Telegraph last week that the political leader has organised a nationwide scheme to teach the Chinese to be the perfect spectators through Olympic Cheering Practice. The city’s official trade union running the regimented course is conducting classes in hand-clapping, scarf-waving and balloon banging.

The move comes after worrying memories resurfaced of the football fiasco in the 2004 Asian Cup final hosted by the Chinese capital. Having lost out to Japan, the furious Chinese fans swarmed around the opposition’s bus, hurled bottles and stones at it, fought with police and generally produced a scene worthy of a Saturday evening in many an English city in the 90’s, minus the kebab meat.

So, cue the Chinese Behaviour Busters. The squad are travelling around the country touring factories, community centres and even old people’s homes. Just imagine. Picture a load of wizened little Chinese spinsters frantically flapping their arms and stoically stamping their feet to the beat of a drum. They must be having a ball.

Perhaps the British could help. We could send a troop from the Territorial Army to trot across the globe and divulge a few tips on our very own national sport, the art of the orderly queue. This is a phenomenon which has both baffled and bemused people from all over the world but would nevertheless guarantee a very organised 2008 Olympics. And then in turn, perhaps the Chinese could teach the Brits some of their newly acquired footy fan skills, like how not to repeatedly spit globules of alcohol-laced saliva every which way but loose.

The newly created Temper Team is also taking it upon itself to create a showcase of 20 different songs for the sporting spectators to choose from and chant. Maybe our own country’s rugby fans should take a leaf out of the Chinese sporting manual and fill Wembley with more than just a highly energetic but somewhat repetitive first line of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

What does worry me just a little is the thought of a mass of Chinese fans persistently bleating the same words, insistently producing the same movements and determinedly staying in complete unison. It may appear a little intimidating and army-like to say the least.

Yet come August, Bejing will be awash with an all-singing, all-dancing cast of sports spectators who don’t smoke, don’t swear, don’t throw litter and who queue for a beer. Now where’s the fun in that?

The Taffia strike again.

The Welsh has to be one of the most glorious nations to walk this Earth. I have always had a quiet fondness for the Welshmen of this world, nothing whatsoever to do with my paternal roots in the Land of Song. When at school, my alarm clock would often be the booming, breath-taking melodies of a Welsh Male Voice Choir floating up and over the banisters and into my room whilst my mother screeched at dad to turn down the volume.

The Boyos from the Black Mountains are ferociously proud of all things Welsh. For everyone on the other side of Offa’s Dyke or the Bristol Channel, this means a rather ridiculous image of a coal-mining, rugger-playing, Tom Jones’s singing, leek-farming, sheep-loving backwater.

Yet the latest demonstration of Welsh patriotism clearly shows their resolute determination to make a passionate stand on the United Kingdom’s stage. Ian Lucas, MP for Wrexham wants the beautiful red dragon, Y Ddraig Goch, to hop off its perfectly mowed green lawn and jump onto the criss-cross mish-mash of geometrical shapes that is the Union Jack – and preferably plonk itself right in the middle.

St George’s worst enemy has not graced the UK’s flag until now because Wales has, since 1282 and the Laws of 1535 -1542, been considered to be a Principality and never a country in its own right. But the Taffies from the Valleys think it’s high time they got a look in, especially considering the fact that St Patrick’s cross is in there somewhere.

The patriotic idea has been written off by Stewart Jackson, MP for Peterborough as being “eccentric.” Well, firstly, what’s wrong with a bit of idiosyncrasy? And secondly, I don’t think eccentric is really the correct word – maybe stark raving mad is a little more apt. Because let’s face it, changing the iconic image of the Union Jack is not going to be a walk in a daffodil strewn park. But it will not deter the Welsh from trying.

And this is the point. In an ideal world, Puff the Magic Dragon’s Celtic cousin would stand proudly, centre stage on the red, white and blue backdrop of the Union Jack. But clearly, we live in a far from an idyllic world. The fire-breathing folkloric monster probably won’t make the transition for as long as Charlotte Church and Gavin Henson continue to grace the glossy pages of OK and Hello magazine. But at least the Welsh are giving it a shot.

Excess baggage.

The “fat tax” was a government plan concocted in the early 90’s to increase the price of tasty treats and naughty nibbles by 17.5 per cent. The idea was to try to curb the nation’s cravings for all things calorific. However, this week the term has developed far more personal, humiliating and potentially degrading implications.

The controversial concept of a “pay as you weigh” proposal for super-sized Brits at airport check-ins across the country may have slim-line specimens jumping up and down with glee. But the notion itself is clearly fraught with stereotypical and insulting complications. It could also cause huge amounts of emotional stress to those the other side of svelt, as health groups have sensitively pointed out.

How exactly is this going to work, I wonder? Will there be yet another ridiculously long, yet absurdly regimented queue in the departures lounge where sheepish-looking travellers wait their turn to jump on the scales? That would look like some sort of mortifying cattle market.

Nevertheless I must admit, I have always felt rather indignant as I stand at the check-in in any European airport, laden like a South-American pack-horse with books and shoes for which I get charged extortionate amounts, whilst a fleshy flyer in front manages to get away without paying any extra.

Charging corpulent customers a weight-based surcharge also makes commercial sense, as heavier loads increase fuel costs. Smokers are taxed. So are drinkers. And gamblers too. A “fat tax” might not only encourage people to lose weight, but deter others from putting it on and stop the obesity pandemic which is crippling our nation.

On the plane itself, especially on budget airlines where there isn’t even enough space to open a broadsheet without causing utter pandemonium, weight issues also cause irritation and frustration. A long-limbed lad or a leggy young lass has to pay more for extra leg room, but large people who encroach on your personal space are not. One could argue that people don’t choose to be tall, but some can choose whether or not to be overweight.

What is more, it emerged in The Telegraph last week that a couple wishing to emigrate to New Zealand had to split up because Rowan Trezise, the wife, had not managed to lose enough weight to be allowed in to the country. The reason? She would be a heavy burden on the country’s health care system. Her husband has gone ahead without her.

Although rather harsh, I understand the reasoning behind these apparently callous rules. I don’t think that there is a person out there who is not fully aware of the fact that last year, obesity cost the National Health Service – drumroll… - a whopping £4billion.

But apart from the fact that this system should take in to account more than simply Body Mass Index in order to assess candidates health problems, I worry that for all its good intentions, this particular process of selection could simply open the dangerous flood-gate for an avalanche of similarly ruthless criterion. First, fatties. Next, smokers. Then binge drinkers. Where will it end?

Yet whether we care to admit it or not, obesity is a killer. And perhaps a hard-nosed, merciless approach to its elimination would be far more successful than the current atmosphere of the “nanny state” which is all talk and no action.

Storm in a tea cup?

A shaven-headed, half-naked, heavily-tattooed footy thug urinating skillfully into a delicate china tea-cup. Not your conventional billboard advert. But this is precisely the image chosen by Brussels to front its new Eurostar advertising campaign and promote tourism to our great capital.

The set of publicity images coincides with the launch of the new high-speed train service which now takes travellers from the Belgian capital to the centre of London in only 1 hour and 51 minutes.

The slogan alongside the stereotypical English football hooligan reads “Attention, London is just around the corner.” And apparently, according to variations of the campaign, so is Hitchcock with a knife, John Cleese doing a silly walk and a Teletubby standing in a Royal Sentry box.

The advert, aimed solely at the Belgian tourism market, apparently sets out to be “humorous” and depict the British nation as eccentric, cosmopolitan and cutting-edge, according to Lesley Retallack, Head of Press and Events at Eurostar. Translation – this is what Good ‘Ol England is full of, enter at your peril.

Well. You can imagine the reaction as soon as the images hit British soil. Even though this particularly abhorrent specimen of mankind can indeed be found across the country, I'm sure many an Englishman would like to think that we have a little more on offer.

The Belgians are trying to cover their backs against this inevitable tirade of eye-watering insults by pointing out the rather tenuous cultural parallel between the pot-bellied, brute-faced thug and the little bronze Belgian hero, the Manneken Pis. Ok, so the posture may be almost identical. But one is a cheeky little scamp, the other a fully-grown adult.

Arguably, this rather hard-hitting portrayal of England is far more accurate and insightful than the sickly, saccharine-sweet images we are forced to swallow in films such as Notting Hill, Wimbledon and Love Actually. According to these totally warped, suagr-coated portrayals of life in the capital, London Town is fit to bursting with cloned copies of the dreamy eyed, sensitive, near-on perfect man. And what is more, you can make him fall head over heels in love with you, and say things like oopsie-daisy, by simply standing in the way and making sure he spills an orange juice (freshly squeezed) all over you.

The new ad, in contrast, has not so much as a glimpse of gallantry in sight. Crude it may be. Bad taste perhaps. But tongue in cheek most definitely.

I can’t help but feel that our European friends are secretly chuckling away in their lace cushioned homes and munching on their chocolate waffles. And good on them. Funny isn’t it. It used to be that the Belgians were the boring ones and the Brits were the ones with the sense of humour. Now who’s got the last laugh?

Mighty Mice.

It seems like only yesterday that I sat staring, incredulous, at surreal photographs of the Vacanti mouse running around with a human ear atop its fluffy little back, wondering if it meant it could now understand human-speak. After all, Pinky and the Brain could.

Well now, once again, mice have made their little mark. Last week, national newspapers announced that scientist Professor Richard Hanson and his team at Case Western Reserve University, Ohio, have created a bionic mouse, a real-life Speedy Gonzales. The supermouse, particularly the female one, can sprint for a staggering three miles and up to six hours before it needs a cat nap or a blister plaster. The mouse, whose stage name is PEPCK-Cmus, also lives up to a year longer (light years in micey terms) guzzles 60% more fodder but doesn’t gain any weight. Evil little tyke.

But then he does put Paula Radcliffe to shame on the exercise front, so I’ll let it off. Apparently, the pesky varmint is also full of rage and is sexually active far longer than your regular Mickey Mouse.

Now correct me if I’m wrong, but some of these traits seem rather appealing, do they not? Imagine if they were pumped into humans. Obesity would be a distant nightmare and the planet would be populated with super-skinny females and super-stacked males who wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off one another.

And then last week, a new Mighty Mouse was born, Delta D. A mouse who is no longer afraid of the Toms and Sylvesters of this world. Amazing. But I don’t quite understand how this is possibly a good thing. The pest no longer associates the smell of a prowling puss with the smell of fear. As a result, the real-life Danger Mouse will casually stroll up to a foe of the feline variety, nuzzle up for a cuddle and promptly get its head bitten off.

Hitoshi Sakano, the mastermind from the University of Tokyo who led this game of cat and mouse, has praised his fascinating findings. He claims that it was possible to override the innate aversion that all mammals – including humans – have to certain smells, including aversive behaviours to spoiled foods. Fantastic. I’m sure that environmentalists and Waste Management will be over the moon at the prospect of families cheerily dishing up rotting vegetables followed by Stuart Little’s staple snack of cheese which crawls off your plate.

But don't rush to form an orderly queue on the other side of the world. Sadly none of these traits are to be used directly as performance-enhancers for humans. The powers-that-be have decided that it would be “unethical and inappropriate.” Well, it would definitely be rather ridiculous if the human fear factor was eliminated, that’s for sure. Kids would no longer be afraid of the Bogey Man, teenagers of their reflection and adults of the tax man. Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all.

Handbags at dawn.

I cannot help but be wickedly amused by the furore caused at the Ibero-American summit in Santiago on Saturday by the Spanish King’s gruff retort to the Venezuelan President. In a verbal fisty-cuffs, Juan Carlos tried to silence Chavez who, despite his microphone being opportunely turned off, insisted on vocally chastising the former Spanish PM.

“Shut up” is in fact an incredibly common phrase in Spain. Anyone would flippantly shout it at his mother, the village priest or the television set. Not only this, but Juan Carlos clearly uses the familiar, friendly form of the verb in what appears to be nothing more than a mumble from a grumbling man in defence of his former Spanish Prime Minister amid talks of fascists and snakes.

Just imagine if Her Royal Highness had told Scottish First Minister Alex Salmond to zip it after he had slagged off Tony Blair. Ok, so it’s not quite the same. But anyway, my point is that it simply would not happen. It would completely go against the “stiff upper-lip” mentality still maintained by many a Brit. Shame. But the point is that what is deemed unthinkable over here is shrugged off as a mere aside over there.

Is the Spanish King not entitled to his own opinion and insults? It’s not as if Gordon and David don’t routinely verbally pulverise one another over lunch every Wednesday at Prime Minister’s Questions. In fact, it’s not the first time the hot-blooded King has publicly expressed his emotions. Visiting the Basque Country last year, he gave demonstrators the royal finger. Once again, he couldn’t contain himself, but then again, telling an over-excitable Venezuelan to pipe down is hardly a crime.

The whole fiasco has definitely attracted a rather unprecedented wave of media and public attention. Under any normal circumstances, what otherwise could have passed by as yet another political reunion where yet another group of middle-aged men sit around toying with the idea of world peace, has now been transformed into a YouTube hit.

But whether right or wrong, flippant remark or barbed command, what annoys me is that this fiery little outburst has totally overshadowed the true purpose of the three day summit. The leaders met to pledge to fight poverty and increase regional cooperation. Nearly 6 million migrant workers in Latin America, Spain and Portugal will be able to transfer social security benefits between their nations as a result of their encounter.

So perhaps Chavez and the King should kiss and make up, (hand-shaking is for us Northerners.) Maybe they should move on. Or maybe they should consider following the lead of the daring duo of French and German foreign ministers, Bernard Kouchner and Frank-Walter Steinmeier, and whip up a little crooning R&B ditty to pacify the situation. They might even top the Christmas charts this year.

The world has gone tits up.

War, obesity, terrorism, pollution. Both Superman and Captain Planet would be struggling. Well, I think I might have found a possible root cause or even a potential solution to all our problems.

Our nation has a fixation with all things naked. I literally could not believe my eyes when I read about the latest ITV scandal. Fashion’s feared and ferocious twosome, Skinny Trinny and stern-faced Susannah’s latest campaign to get women out of badly-fitting bras and into snug, second skins has been slated and berated. On Wednesday night the on-screen style bible, Trinny and Susannah Undress the Nation, “dared” to show a few pairs of naked breasts before the sacred 9pm watershed.

Now I completely understand the importance of this cut-off point when it comes to extreme violence and explicit sexual content. I can just imagine parents trying to explain the logistical mechanics of the contorted images in a programme like Channel 4’s The Sex Inspectors. But for goodness sake. What is so disgusting, deplorable and dangerous about a pair of unclad mammary glands?

An ITV spokesman found himself having to justify the use of footage of women topless and in bras in the context of the show. Not only that, remember too that the fashionista twins were hammering home the importance of wearing the correct bra in order to prevent backache and sags or chaffing and bags. They may have been a little harsh in the process, but that’s not the point here.

The show was even condemned by family campaigners who said the use of bare breasts was against Ofcom guidelines. It used the adjective “gratuitous.” I don’t know about you, but I would call the blood baths of computer game Manhunt 2 gratuitous. Not an on-screen image of some middle-aged woman’s pendulous peaches. The educational and comic scenes were also described as offensive. John Beyer of Mediawatch said that “Ofcom has a duty to protect young people from this kind of thing." Protect them from what exactly? A naked body? Viewers have said that they were “deeply disturbed” by the level of nudity, particularly when having to explain it to their children. Is it any wonder this country is a mess?

The kind of people who have written in to complain about these images of topless women, which, might I point out, are about as provocative as a builder’s bum, are the kind of people who puritanically put a bikini top on a four year old child instead of letting her run around as God intended. They are the kind of people who would not dream of undressing in front of their child, let alone having a bath with them.

Kids grow up thinking that there is something shameful and dirty about being starkers in front of someone else. They also grow up referring to their genitals as fufu and winkie, or fanny and willie. And then we wonder why teenagers go nuts when they hit puberty and promptly hop into bed with anything that moves. I don’t think it’s unreasonable or even wildly inaccurate to suggest that perhaps this utterly unhealthy obsession with secrecy and privacy is in fact creating and perpetrating a generation of children who are body-conscious to the extreme.

There are few things in this world which are as beautiful as the naked human form. Why do you think museums all over the world are full to bursting with magnificent sculptures and paintings of beaux and belles in their birthday suits. Why should this be hidden and condemned as something unsightly and impure?

A few weeks ago, a sponsored walk of naturists along the cliffs of the Jurassic Coastal path in Dorset to raise money for the Marine Conservation Society was almost stopped and one innocent naked man arrested in response to public outcry. Toms, Dicks and Harriettes were scandalized at being confronted with a collection of significantly shrivelled penises braving the elements. The walkers were finally allowed to continue, but only once flanked on either side by a handful of rather red-faced coppers.

Perhaps there should be a World Nakedness Day on which people can go to the office, do the weekly grocery shop and complete their workout in the buff. Maybe then, people would learn to love one another for who and what they really are, but more importantly, learn to love themselves.

Pet hates.

As Bonfire Night drew near earlier this week, the RSPCA suggested drugging our doggies with a customised air freshener so they wouldn’t die of a heart attack when a rocket went off. The chemical it contained, called the Dog Appeasing Pheromone is intended to minimise distress naturally. Has pet care become a little ludicrous in this land? In fact, why do we even have pets?

When I was about 10, I decided I wanted to construct a snail farm. I rummaged around in the shrubbery and found a few prize specimens of this land-bound mollusc, painted their shells with pink or blue nail varnish – depending on whether I decided they were girls or boys – and made them a little house. The leader of the pack was called Barney. I then proceeded to try to stick them together, slimy underside to slimy underside in order to produce mini snails. Maybe not a totally accurate lesson on reproduction, I was nevertheless entertained for hours.

The idea behind having a pet is that children learn how to care for something, discover the responsibility of feeding it and taking it for walks and, most importantly of all, the value of loving it. Now my sister and I definitely loved our guinea pigs. Although when it was dark and cold, there were “humungous” spiders lurked in the nooks and crannies of Daffodil Den, sometimes mum was forced to take the torch and clean the smelly little monsters out herself. But we still loved them unconditionally.

But even I stand boggle-eyed and slap-jawed at the apparent lunacy of Leona Helmsley who in August left her pampered pooch $12 million. Aptly named Trouble, I can imagine the mollycoddled canine being the cause of considerable controversy amongst the billionaire’s two pretty peeved grandchildren.

The Spaniards are not alone in thinking, why keep a fluffy rabbit in a cage to get fat when you can let it run around the fields, shoot it and dish it up? If fact, the South-Americans would rather roll a guinea-pig up in some clay and pop it in the middle of the bonfire than have to shovel up its poop.

But pets are fun. I distinctly remember walking into the conservatory one morning to find, to my utter delight, two prickly little hedgehog scampering and defecating all over the lino. My dad had found them on the pavement the night before. He thought that the little pin cushions and their fleas would provide a pleasant surprise come breakfast time. The inevitable decision to release them back in to the wild became a momentous and ceremonial affair later in the day.

A childhood buddy reminded me only recently of my father’s seemingly harmless but at the time truly terrifying bedtime stories. He warned us that we had to look after our menagerie of furry friends or the gypsies would come in the dead of night, fling them onto the back of their horse and cart and carry them off for supper. Now I see what he was trying to do. At the time, my friend spent sleepless nights running up and down the stairs checking that Sugar Lump and Demerara were still safely locked up.

Also, learning to play with animals instead of sitting in front of a television screen is crucial for a child’s personal development. At home, we used to collect juicy pink worms and teeny tickly woodlice in plastic cups when my parents were gardening to study them scrupulously and tirelessly. My sister once had a family of stick insects which escaped and multiplied in the laundry basket. I remember wiling away the hours making playgrounds for the hamsters. Sitting on a chair lift, miles up in the Alps one Christmas, we even went so far as to meticulously plan their wedding ceremony. The speeches, the songs and the seating plan. Only to come back and find that Kei-Kei had selfishly spoilt the party by popping her furry little clogs during our absence.

And this brings me to a final reason for having pets. It helps children to cope with loss. My bottom lip still trembles uncontrollably when I think about the poor, blighted little newt I took into school in a glass tank that somehow managed to escape over the half term holiday. He made it half way to freedom up the main corridor before gulping its last little breath and croaking on the carpet tiles, a shrivelled up twiglet.

So come on folks, love them or hate them, we need pets. The world would be a sadder place without Klonky and Minnie, Tiddles and Cookie. And we don’t need Blue Peter to choose the names for us either.

Tongue-tied.

The buzz word of the week is NEET, yet another social stereotype which depicts a collection of the country’s youngsters who, according to the Government, have no interest in, well anything really.

But aside from this, an equally shocking statistic has come to light. As highlighted in The Guardian on Monday, the number of teenagers choosing to take a GCSE in a Modern Foreign Language has dropped from 80% to a frightening 48% since Labour came to power.

Is anyone surprised by this? Surely not. What would you rather do, painstakingly chant your way through the verb “to be” in a terrible German accent or create your own music video, set up a company selling nipple piercings or roll around the school hall simulating murder whilst lit by a strobe? The creation of the “studies” and “ologies” is leading people down the garden path and away from “old school” subjects such as the classics and modern languages.

Now I am neither condoning nor criticising this genre of “new” subjects. Far from it. At school, I had a ball dressing up in a catsuit, face painted half white, half black, rocking back and forth moaning on the floor in yet another play about teenage angst. What I’m saying is that I also made damn sure I could order more than a luke warm cerveza in a Spanish karaoke bar and a kilo de tomates in a quaint French grocery store.

There are few things that make my half-Spanish, half-Welsh blood boil more than a lobster-hued English tourist vociferously demanding “Egg ‘n chips love” across Europe. Perhaps one of the few things that can top it is the oft repeated mantra of an ignorant happy-clappy holiday-maker, “Well who needs to learn a foreign language when everyone else in the world speaks English.”

Firstly, this wildly presumptuous claim is utterly erroneous. Secondly, even if this totally egotistical statement were true, why does that mean that we shouldn’t make the effort to converse in Portuguese or Polish, French or Finnish? As a nation we have become shamelessly slothful when it comes to giving our brains a little linguistic workout. And businesses across the land are desperate for languages. Fact. Not only is learning a foreign language an excellent form of mental gymnastics, but also opens up a wealth of golden opportunities, studying and working abroad included.

In fact, it may just be that part of the reason that there have been no developments in the disappearance of Madeleine McCann are precisely because none of the British reporters on scene even speak Portuguese. Journalists frequently rely on slap-dash translations and are prevented from developing possible leaks and forging their own precious contacts due to linguistic ignorance.

But of course encouraging students to study languages is not made any easier by the frustrating scenario faced by many a Brit, sitting pretty in a delightful little French creperie excited about their super-sized galette, when the waiter hands them an English menu (inevitably hysterically translated) and insists on taking notes in a pidgin version of your mother tongue.

The truth is that we have stolen so many words from our foreign friends that barely a sentence goes by without a spattering of exotic words to liven our otherwise banal parlance. Imagine the scenario. After being plagued by an extraordinary sense of déjà-vu, Sally sets up a rendez-vous and subsequently engages in an über-intense tête à tête with her closest friend about how she dreamt her husband had a rather small wiener. In order to calm her nerves, her friend offers her a ham baguette and a cappuccino and suggests she has a little siesta. Touché. She has almost overcome her sense of shock when she realises she is peckish, the oven is kaput and so dashes out for a quick buffet of tapas. Well, c’est la vie.

By studying the language of another country, we learn about their culture, their history and inevitably become far more open-minded and welcoming of other peoples across the globe. Not only that, but whack a couple of delicate French phrases into your otherwise rather flat sentences and suddenly you appear wonderfully sophisticated and frightfully erudite. Mais oui.

People may feel complete bumbling along in their Anglo-Saxon sphere, listening to British pop music, drinking British lager, cursing British government and lauding British weather. But for inquiring minds and an unquenched thirst for knowledge, why not break free of this safe, and let’s face it, rather unappetising mould and hop across the Channel to cultures new and quash those all-too true accusations of English linguistic impotence.

Are you feeling SAD?

5 o’clock and it may as well be midnight. Ok, so I did manage to get an extra hour in bed last weekend, but for this? Now people are talking about having different time zones for Scotland and England. The argument for this is that the land of kilts and bare bottoms would benefit from more hours of sunshine.

But worship the sun too much and you’re in deep trouble. Over-exposure to the unforgiving ultra-violent rays of nature’s own lightbulb results in skin damage and possibly cancer. Those Soltan ads are enough to turn anyone nocturnal. Yet a lack of golden sunbeams and people mope about, a shadow of their former selves, gloomy and grey in the face.

Kids are pleased to hear that they don’t have to hold their little noses and shovel ladlefuls of Pop Eye’s preferred snack into their little mouths in order to get their daily Vitamin D top-up. Simply sitting outside in the sunshine for twenty minutes a day will do the trick. But what happens when the sun inconsiderately, yet persistently goes on annual leave and refuses to return? It’s all well and good for you to rise and shine with a bowl of Kellogg’s Cornflakes and that infuriatingly chirpy cockerel, but what if the garishly grinning sun has resigned?

I have no doubt that I suffer from SAD, seasonal affective disorder, and not sale absence disorder, which could also be the case. Grey skies and I refuse to brave the great outdoors. For me, the cold poses no threat. I will happily cavort around in minus zero temperatures all day long so long as the sun is beaming down on me, and I have a barrel of vin chaud waiting for me on the other side.

In fact, thinking about it, I am very tempted to blame my Mediterranean-blooded mother for this constant nagging necessity for the sun’s rays. Then again, perhaps it had something to do with my particular experience of childhood songs. My dad was forever bellowing “The sun has got his hat on,” and endlessly humming “You are my sunshine” on a loop. I lived my life thinking that never-ending sunshine equalled frolicking in the daisies and a bunch of deliriously happy individuals. Slight problem in a land when the sun comes out for about 3 days a year.

It goes without saying that when the sun is out, people are generally happier. Not only that, but bolstered by the fact that, as every girl knows, naturally tanned (NOT orange) skin is the best accessory for any outfit.

As a toddler, you never wanted to be the kid chosen to pin the weather sticker on the board when it was an unhappy cloud with unhappier raindrops plopping down. You wanted to be chosen on the day that had the big smiley sun sticker.

So how to combat this dreaded SAD? On the news the other day was an item about people sticking their heads under a funny-looking blanket and being blasted with a beam of coloured light. Now this clearly sounds like utter bunkum.

I think an easier, cheaper and far less embarrassing solution would be to hop on an Easyjet flight to Marbella and soak up the rays down south along with all the other fine specimens of Britishness. And maybe it’s no bad thing that Helios seems to have utterly abandoned us. Because after all, there’s only one thing worse than beautiful Spanish beaches plagued by loud-mouthed larger louts. And that’s British beaches plagued by them.

It smacks of sense.

Hands up who was smacked as a child. Hands up who thinks smacking children is mere slaptrap. Society’s attitude to “good parenting” has spiralled out of control. As revealed in The Sunday Times Magazine on Sunday, the Judge Rotenberg Educational Center in Massachusetts which administers electric shocks every time a rebellious youngster steps out of line is totally unacceptable. But laws which prevent mum or dad from administering a firm hand and a stern face once in a blue moon are utterly ludicrous and essentially counterproductive.

When justified, parents should not be afraid of giving their little ones a quick smack, a “reasonable chastisement” according to the law. I’m not talking about a wallop on the tushie, or a bash around the head. Just a short, firm tap. My dad used to tuck us in at night with eye-watering anecdotes of his scallywag schooldays. A South Walian minefield of fierce leather belts, unforgiving leather-soled slippers and merciless wooden rulers. Ok, so this may have gone against the Human Rights Act, but nevertheless, these muscle-bound matrons and ex-military, wizened old professors were onto something.

No one marches you to a tribunal when you give your pooch a little hoof as it desperately tries to slobber all over your latest pair of cute winter booties. Occasionally, children also need to be reminded of what is right and wrong. What is so wrong with giving a child a little warning smack when he tries to use the freshly painted magnolia walls as his blank canvas, even if he is a Monet in the making?

As a young’un, I remember my dad once chasing me relentlessly around the back garden, palm ready for action. The provocation? Making a “magic potion” and pouring it all over his beloved (soon to be bedraggled) lawn. So my parents weren’t afraid to smack. So what? It’s hardly worth a binding over order, let alone a stint in a secure unit.

Nowadays, your typical modern mummy wouldn’t even dream of landing a smarting palm onto the bottom of a petulant, screeching, horrid little sproglet. Nevertheless, she will happily dish up deep fried pizza before plonking the naïve little monster in front of the telly for hours, until she drags him, kicking and screaming to his unmade bed.

When I think smacking, I think Mrs Trunchbull and the chocolate cake. She was a woman possessed by the power of corporal punishment, armed to the teeth with a prize-winning collection of whips and sticks, tools and instruments, ready to strike at any opportune moment. And her pupils did not so much as twitter.

On Saturday it was revealed in The Times that Channel 4’s answer to Roald Dahl’s firm-handed female figure, Claire Verity, is in fact a fake. But aside from her false qualifications, or rather her startling lack of them, it is her particular style of parenting which has sparked a national debate. Almost 2,000 people have signed an online petition warning the Prime Minister about the threat posed by her parenting theories which are more military than most, even draconian at times. She suggests you leave babies out to air and indulge in only ten minutes of cuddles a day. Please.

It is no surprise then that her severely antiquated set of Bringing up Baby rules has notched up an impressive 737 Ofcom complaints. Mollycoddling is one thing, outright indifference to suffering is quite another. Refusing to lay a finger on a child is one extreme, smacking him silly every five minutes is the other.

Just because you remind a kid of who is boss it doesn’t mean he will turn into a devil child and thump anything that gets in his way. Very occasionally showing a firm but gentle hand will not only prevent those publicly humiliating, fist-clenching, foot-stamping tantrums, but will also save pints of blood, sweat and tears when it gets to adolescence. Within reason, parents should buck up and smack away.

Seeing red.

I used to have a theory that ginger individuals were either drop-dead gorgeous or somewhat aesthetically challenged. Either way, it is an evolutionary tragedy when it emerges that the perversely named “fanta pants” posse will soon become extinct.

In times gone by, redheads were often branded as wicked witches and werewolves, Machiavellian vampires and even Mr Mephistopheles himself. Since time immemorial, the Carrot Top Clan can boast such members as fluffy squirrels, fluffier orang-utans and the extra-follicular Highland cow. But new scientific research shows that our childhood cartoon comrades Fred and Barney, Bam Bam and Pebbles may also have been proprietors of the ginger gene.

Articles in the Mail on Sunday and news items on the BBC delighted in this latest russet-coloured revelation. And although not particularly mind-blowing in itself, it nevertheless revisits the fiery question, why is it that people would rather be seen dead, than red?

Now personally, I don’t really see what is wrong with having Satsuma coloured hair. In fact, I happen to adore the auburn look. But I do think that the rather negative ginger image that smug brunettes and scoffing blondes cruelly promote actually lies not in the hue of the hair, but in the abundance of freckles adorning the skin.

I think freckles are cute. But of course this is the problem. I can’t imagine a 17 year old hormonal teen plagued by angst and all things dark being ecstatic with this particular accolade. On top of the freckles, La-La Land lovely, Lindsey Lohan, was once infamously referred to as “fire crotch” by one of her many rich-list rivals. Nice. Despite the redheads in Gulliver’s Travels being unstoppable, the damning duo of freckles and ginger hair are not traditionally accompanied by lashings of sex appeal.

John Frieda has tried to spice things up for the ginger nuts by adding “Radiant Red” to his delicious, and might I add incredibly opulent range of shampoo. But it still does not quite compete with the Sheer Blonde and Brilliant Brunette strands. It also seems a little extreme and economically counter-productive to concoct a particular range of hair cleaning product for 1-2% of the world’s population. But then again, if he didn’t, he would immediately be branded as being gingerist.

Gingerphobia is an undeniable reality. Pregnant mothers lie awake at night, belly in the air, fraught with worry, desperately trying to calculate the mathematical possibility of their newborn popping out with a crop of orange hair atop its cute little head. I do sincerely hope that the urban myths of horrified mothers tossing their strawberry blond babies into lakes are utterly unfounded. But persecuted they remain.
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I found out only recently that a particularly good friend of mine is in fact a member of the Bogus Blonde Brigade. Not only that, but she is, naturally, a Titian muse, aka ginge. She told me she wanted to make sure we were friends before she dropped the bombshell (alas, not a truly blonde one) and confessed. I have to admit, I felt cheated.

There is no doubt that whatever her roots, I would embrace her and her orange tresses warmly. I would still love her just as much as ever, just maybe not set her up with my cousin anymore.

The Ginga Gang need to stop conforming and start revelling in their flame-coloured exclusivity. The rest of us, the mousey-haired masses, should stop teasing our ginger neighbours and start admiring these dwindling specimens of mankind. If our ancestors, the orang-utans are proud of being tangoed, then perhaps the human versions should also show their true colours.

The sky’s the limit.

I have a voice control problem. Twice, I have been told to turn down my volume when in the air, once by a fellow passenger and once by a trolley dolly. Imagine what would happen if I was allowed to take to the skies, with a telephonic device surgically attached. Well beware. By the start of next year, BMI Baby, Ryan Air and Air France fans may be able to do just that.

I’m a little confused. The Guardian has announced that Transport for London will soon be dishing out on the spot fines to anyone listening to Sean Kingston too loudly on their iPod (not that I would disagree with this particular sanity-preserving mechanism.) And yet the European Aviation Safety Agency are about to give free rein to an aeronautic soundtrack worthy of any glossy mag’s problem page.

Just imagine the mixture of banal and exasperating conversations flitting around the cabin, thousands of feet above ground level: the lovers’ tiff, the business man demanding steak for dinner on arrival, the nervous first-time flyer needing constant weather reports and the hormonal teen stressing about Saturday night’s outfit. Talk about disturbance.

Then you’d have the 34 year old IT-geek click, click, clicking away, playing Snake and desperately trying to beat his PB before the in-flight up-date. And what about the couple who have just met in departures over a Prêt à Manger sandwich and embark on a never-ending textathon throughout the journey? The Mile High Club would go techno, and phone sex would take to the skies.

The mixture of ring tones would be worse than that infamously infuriating cinema advert. Whizzing across time zones would ensure a relentless racket of tinny pop tunes and keyboard demos. And some Trigger Happy TV wannabe joker would inevitably impersonate the mobile phone scene midway across the Atlantic just as your sleeping pills are kicking in.

So would there be a “turn off to switch off” flight deck mantra? A silent mode policy enforced upon sky-high chatterboxes? If that were the case, I can just picture a 747 dangerously veering off course as a result of the manic vibrations of a cabin-full of cell phones.

When on a train, you can death-stare the babbling culprit into submission. Failing this, change carriage, or use your voice even louder. But frantically scanning the on-board safety instructions to fling open the escape exit and then desperately launching yourself into the serene skies is not quite as logistically possible.

And I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t sit too comfortably in my reclined, leather-upholstered window seat knowing that my idle mobile prattle could potentially cause signal failure, skew avionics, detonate bombs and possibly prompt a crash worthy of a Hollywood summer blockbuster. On this note, research published last year by the British Civil Aviation Authority found that mobile phone signals distort navigation bearing displays by up to five degrees. Now my maths is not great, but couldn’t that mean ending up in San Antonio instead of St Tropez.

I am slightly comforted, albeit somewhat bemused, to hear that earlier this month the U.S. Federal Aviation Authority ruled that it would not allow mobile calls on planes for the foreseeable future.

The Daily Telegraph’s Charles Starmer Smith has even gone so far as to launch a campaign against in-flight mobile use to preserve passengers’ safety and sanity when their heads are in the clouds. But in such a technologically infatuated world and one in which phone companies will be charging up to £2 a minute, I do not think that any number of right-wing intellectuals will be able to stop the surge for hell on board.

If this fearsome proposal goes ahead, the present tranquillity of cruising 30,000 feet above the ground will be ruthlessly shattered by the Mobile Phone Mafia. Catatonia may want to re-release her chart-topping hit, “It’s all over the front page, you give me air rage,” and the OED might be tempted to add an entry for it.

Grabbing the Bull by the Horns.

Back in April, a choice selection of the Spanish Glitterati got together to support a campaign to gain Unesco World Heritage status for their controversial past time, bullfighting.

Before I incite a heated dinner-party discussion or even ignite a riotous round-table rant, some ground rules must be firmly drawn in the sand. Firstly, in Spanish newspapers, bullfighting actually appears under Arts, not Sport.

And secondly, before the bovine-loving activists amongst you cry out that if the hounds are now on the dole, then the matadors should be too, let me point out the fundamental difference between the hunt and the fight. It is this. If you ask any Brit, young or old, rich or poor, city-slicker or country bumpkin to describe those typically involved in this pastime, their answer would be both instant and unequivocal- the Lords and Ladies of the Manor, the Hooray Henries, the Hoi-Polloi. However you label them, hunting is and always has been perceived as a spiffing sport for the wealthy demographic, a frivolity for the filthy rich.

Ask any pure-blooded Spaniard to set the scene at Sunday’s “corrida” however, and his list will go something like this. From the little village priest to the local beauty queen, the prize-winning pig farmer to the mayor’s burly house-keeper. With scant regard for the ban on under-14’s, the excitable crowd is a seething mass of babes in arms, rebellious teenagers and hobbling grannies. To miss out would be down-right sacrilege, or even social suicide.

When boiled down to its essentials, rather like the perfect paella, a bullfight is quintessentially a celebration of all things Spanish. The locals gleefully sit there, bums on cushions brought from home, chomping away on their chorizo sarnies, swigging their luke warm Rioja and hurling endless abuse and profanities that would make an Englishman’s toes curl.

As for the action, there is no denying the fact that there is blood. And suffering. And sometimes the odd impalement or two. Perhaps even with an emergency trip to the make-shift surgery thrown in for good measure. And when the bull’s bacon’s up, the moment of truth is not always a particularly pretty sight. Moreso when an incompetent “butcher,” for want of a better word, takes several attempts at the final, fatal coup de grace. But then this is not supposed to happen, neither is it celebrated. Quite the contrary. The Spanish spectator knows no bounds when it comes to verbally berating a bad’un.

And these “toros bravos,” or fighting bulls, are bred exactly for this purpose. Until they walk the final green mile through verdant pastures and towards the ring, they live cared for and cosseted in the equivalent of a five star hotel with all the trimmings. Roaming free across the hills, these magnificent creatures have become a symbol for Spain and all things Spanish.

Local bullfighters become local heroes carried out on the shoulders of the villagers, and local heart-throbs pinned up on the walls of many a señorita’s bedroom. Banning bullfighting in Spain would be like banning football in England.

So rather than harping on about outlawing this truly Spanish tradition, what your average John Smith should do is try to look beyond the guts and gore and see the whole spectacle as just that, a cultural extravaganza. The theatrical performance of a bullfight is a perilous, thrilling, sensual dance with death, more than the simple culling of half tonne monsters on a sweltering afternoon in July.

And let’s not forget, after the magnificent carcass has been dragged out of the ring, his meat is to be found on some of the best tables in town, and every Juan and Juanita gets to try a bit. So pull on your sombreros, grab the nearest white handkerchief and practice your “olés.” Next time you’re in sunny Spain, get yourself down to the nearest bullring, wiggle your hips to the beat of the Paso Doble and let the fiesta begin.

Uniform Rules.

One of my dad’s favourite photographs of me as a child is me standing on the front door step on my first day of school. With a rucksack double my size, blazer sleeves trailing along the ground and soon-to-be scuffed shiny new shoes on my little feet, I was ready for anything.

When I stood in the playground lost and bewildered amid a screeching mass of havoc-wreaking school kids, I remember being approached by a terrifying-looking ten year old. In the blink of a teary eye, she brutally and brashly “christened” my brand new beret by twisting and yanking off the little bobble on the top. I cried. My mother sighed. And then last week, the nation was confronted with images of little Welsh school-goers burning their blazers in defiance against stricter uniform regulations, as reported by The Daily Mail. My, these schooling rituals are getting out of hand, I tut.

Despite a nation-wide move to smarten up our school kids, the Government has now decided to set a cap on the price of their uniforms. This is in order to enable families. What ever their financial status to be able to send their kids to their chosen establishment. It should prevent discrimination and exclusion. Great. But, as our continental cohorts curiously ask, what actually is the point of a school uniform?

Strolling around Eton College this summer I was totally taken aback and then tickled pink at the sight of what can only be described as hundreds of “mini men” running to morning prayer, their tail coats billowing out behind them. “They just need a miniature top hat!” I squeaked in delight. I was promptly told that these were only abolished during the Second World War when the youngsters had to carry their gas masks. The full school uniform at Eton costs around £1000. This may be a little on the steep side for a garb which will inevitably have holes torn in the knee by break-time and be far too small by Christmas. Nevertheless, the principle remains the same.

Despite many pupils’ misgivings and teenagers criticizing the creativity-stifling attire, a school uniform is there ultimately to promote a sense of unity, identity and cohesion. David Cameron has pledged that bringing the blazer back will improve classroom discipline and behaviour. The school uniform aims to inspire a sense of belonging, of community and of collective spirit and foster a school image. Without getting too poet, the kids simply look smart.

As a Sixth Former suddenly given free reign over my wardrobe, I used to wake up each morning in a cold sweat, panicking about wearing the same outfit twice. I would run down stairs to find that my top didn’t go with my bag, or that my trousers were too short for my shoes, or that my jacket just looked all wrong. Total nightmare. I tried and tried to get a uniform introduced. Not only for the hassle-free knowledge of knowing exactly what to wear each day. Not only because it would work out far cheaper in the long run. But also more importantly to stop girls turning up in their bikinis and Ugg boots.

But what has to be the most hailed and perhaps least praised advantage of the school uniform is that is wipes out any sort of economic divide between one pupil and the next. When everyone is dressed the same there is no knowing if it is Jacob or Jamelia’s mother who is a botox-injected, silicone-implanted, diamond-encrusted yummy-mummy in a 4x4. There is no way of knowing if it is Raj or Rebecca’s father who works solid twelve hour days to feed his family of 5.

Every child is immediately reduced to the same level, regardless of their background. Kids cannot tease another about their trainers which are, like, sooooooooo uncool. Teenagers cannot thoughtlessly destroy another’s confidence by slagging off their last-season’s strip if they are all in a school uniform which blithely ignores London Fashion Week.

School is for learning. Not for parading Prada’s latest Autumn/Winter Collection. Stripped of their individual outer shell when within the school gates, perhaps our mini-me’s would grow up unscarred by the utterly image-conscious outlook obsessing the rest of society. Instead, the nation’s youngsters would be forced to focus on their textiles, trigonometry and T.S Elliot and save their trackie bums, taunting and trend-setting for home-time.

Should she stoop to conquer?

According to recent studies, there are now statistically more female graduates than male. Hurrah! I hear you feminists cry. Girls are also getting better results in school examinations. Whoopee! I hear you bra-burners cheer. This may be all well and good in terms of academic ammunition against those of the male variety. But are you all still celebrating when I tell you that as a result of this intellectual girl power, there is now a severe reduction in the boy talent pool? Cue silence.

Some women may be perfectly content with a perfectly groomed piece of eye candy surgically attached to their elegant arm. Other women may be as happy as sand girls mothering a man who cannot string a sentence together, let alone a sonnet. But surely some women must be downright distraught at the thought of spending the rest of their days searching high and low for that apparently endangered species. A highly-intellectual-yet-dashingly-handsome-and-utterly-domesticated-not-to-mention-wonderfully-witty-with-a-side-dish-of-sex-appeal man. Surely this is not too much to ask?

Call me old fashioned, call me anti-feminist, call me a weak example of the Modern Millie, but I want a man who can teach me about the Northern Rock crisis, take me through Beethoven's 4th symphony and explain to me what on earth went wrong in the Middle East. Not a man who will teach me how to play Pro-Evo, take me through the off-side rule and explain to me why Branston Pickle Baked Beans just can’t quite compete.

Ok, so I may be being a little harsh. But it shows what a twisted world we live in when it emerges in an article called "The Miranda Complex" published by The Times that just like the successful character from America's top series and female on-screen style bible, Sex and the City, some fraught yet frightfully intelligent females are now going to such drastic lengths as to conceal their victories, promotions and pay packets for fear of putting off their next target.

My mum always used to tell me that the reason no spotty teenager came within a 3 mile radius of me was because XY chromosomes have an inherent fear of splendidly tall lasses. This did not, of course, stop me wearing four inch stilettos. Well perhaps the same is true of intellect. A mediocre male feels mentally second-rate and thus emotionally threatened by a woman whose IQ surpasses his own.

The sad reality is that many a high-flying lady now feels that she will send a potential partner packing if she so much as whispers her Christmas Bonus. For we women know how easy it is to bruise a boy’s ego, damage his hard-man act and land him with an inferiority complex.

But then again, I don’t blame them because what it all boils down to is good ol’ tradition. A universal, unwritten code of conduct which dictates that men should win the bread and women should cook it. Or that men bring home the bacon and women should baste it. It is human nature that man be hunter, woman be gatherer. Ugg. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with this.

What I do think is that in a society where ever more women are beating male counterparts to the top-dog jobs then perhaps it is time for this somewhat archaic rule to be cast aside. Macho men should try to savour the fact that their woman is as, if not more, successful than they are, whilst refusing to let her help fix the showerhead. They should stand on the table and shout about how proud they are, whilst grumbling that their dinner is cold. They should give thanks for a society replete with bright young girls with whom to produce bright little babies, whilst secretly praying it’s a boy.

But then again, this revolution in gender binaries won’t happen overnight. Maybe men need more time to get used to the idea. Maybe this is too much to ask. And maybe it would just be better for us females to declare simply half our salary, for machismo’s sake, and keep the rest for those January sales.

It wasn’t me.

Is it just me, or has it become nigh on impossible to tune in to the radio, turn on the television or peruse the morning papers without being confronted with yet another horrific tale of teenage violence? With the birth of a new social stereotype, the “hoodie,” any innocent citizen merely has to catch sight of a youngster clad in a particular fashion to turn terrified on their heels. So the real question is not why has there been an apparently alarming increase in underage violence, but rather who is responsible?

As ever, the usual culprits emerge. For a while now, parents, schools and health services have been trying to condemn and thus curb the potentially powerful influence played by excessively violent video games. Watching a naïve seven year old screaming blue murder at his on-screen alter-ego to pummel an “enemy” to death is perturbing at least, emotionally damaging at most.

Next in the firing line is the never-ending and ever more treacherous expanse of the World Wide Web. I am encouraged to see that Google’s first entry for “murder” is a Wikipedia definition and explanation of the term. The second entry, a website called Murder in the UK, is a British educational website which boasts recommended reading lists to students. But delve deeper and there is no doubt that a sinister array of sadistic material can be just the click of a mouse away from your child.

The finger is then angrily and accusingly pointed at the television. It seems as if psychoanalysts discussing the highly negative effect of television on society at large were on to something. Through a constant stream of images, there is the inevitable internalization of the monstrosities outside. There is an intrusion into our homely living space by the violence and aggression beyond our front doors. The satanic becomes just another part of the everyday. And the nation’s children are there to witness it.

But, I ask, would it not be more accurate, though somewhat embarrassing for parents to admit that in fact they it is they who are to blame, or at least those who readily let their children play these video games, surf the net and dominate the remote? It is a truth universally acknowledged that some parents have simply lost control over and thereby lost interest in their brood.

Let me say this. These children are not inherently evil. Neither are they sadistic killing machines. They are simply saturated by a steady stream of media images of brutality and aggression. They are inevitably desensitized as a result. In today’s society, kids are frequently confronted by other manifestations of violence such as road rage, football hooliganism and even by the cut-throat gang culture so prevalent in some inner cities.

It has been said before, but I shall say it again. Mums and dads should not try to side-step their parental responsibilities by freely allowing their kids to while away the hours oggling the gogglebox. If the streets are not safe, then simply sit down and talk. This way, teenagers may stay out of trouble and, more importantly, re-establish essential family ties.

This, I think, could be the key to the eradication of teenage violence. If parents outwardly display a deep, heart-felt and palpable sense of love for their children then maybe these teenagers would not feel isolated and unwanted. Involving your children in your life at every available opportunity rather than placating them and pleasing them with visual entertainment will help to ensure that these youngsters grow up with a solid set of unbreakable, core family values. This is the glue that will bind together a healthy, positive and safe society.

Lifting the lid on lunchboxes.

Imagine being greeted seven days a week with an enormous spoon brim full of cod liver oil, 365 days a year for the whole of your childhood. Welcome to my world. I may have skipped to school, the abhorrent stench of fish organs in my wake, but rarely did I so much as sneeze. Lunchtime would arrive and I would happily chomp away at my perfect little package of dried prunes, inspecting the utterly horrified faces of my classroom comrades as they comically screwed up their noses.

My mum had to be the original, undisputed Queen of the Lunchbox. With my munchables safely clad in wonderfully nostalgic, sanctimoniously old-school and uber-eco-friendly brown paper, there was not a sniff of sugar, a whiff of e-numbers or a puff of additives in sight. In fact, perhaps our family’s Sweety Day should be at the top of Gordon Brown’s agenda.

I still stand flabberghasted at the thought of my genuine retort to my mum’s otherwise predictable question, “What would you like for a break-time snack?” What always followed was a lengthy, lip-smacking list worthy of any organic enthusiast or healthy-eating hanger-on. “Mango, Greek yoghurt, pineapple, carrot sticks, coconut!” Is this some sort of joke? Did I, a six year old, seriously request kumquats ahead of Krispy Kremes? What was the world coming to?

Well apparently, in my abode a healthier, happier place. But nowadays, outside my nutritional haven, and despite Jamie Oliver’s most valiant efforts to banish burgers, pack off pizzas and chastise chicken nuggets from school dinners, greedy kiddies still want to guzzle garbage and clueless parents still dish up the dirt. It seems to me that no number of National Lunchbox Weeks, 5-a-day campaigns or frightening statistics will stop children from snatching the nearest Snickers or reckless mums from feeding chips through school railings.

Funnily enough, the problems do not stop at childhood. Oh no. When walking into my flat kitchen at University last week, I found my nostrils assaulted and my stomach churned at the sight of a Fresher’s choice of tasty treat – a steak and kidney pie. In a tin. So it may cost only £1.25. It may be quick and easy to cook. It may also rot your insides and keep you on the toilet for a week.

So here we are, university students, old enough to drive a car, vote and have sexual relations, yet these walking time bombs still have no knowledge, or perhaps no conscience of what should pass from hand to mouth, lips to hips. "Leave them to it," I would be inclined to sigh in a moment of despair. But then what artery-clogged future would their offspring have to endure?

My mum was no superhuman. Neither had she cracked a cryptic hieroglyphic code to healthy eating. She just used common sense. And common sense does not say pile up the penny sweets. But neither does it say forbid all treats. It simply says that man did not evolve through gobbling e-numbers and gulping additives. We should stop looking in pots, tins and freezers to satisfy our stomachs and simply go back to our roots.

Never in the right.

What do Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar and Prince William all have in common? The same thing as Ronald Regan, George Bush Senior and Bill Clinton. They are all left-handed.

In fact, the list of successful lefties is endless. Michelangelo, Rafael and da Vinci were all members of this elite club. And what of two of the best loved cartoon characters the world has ever known, Kermit the Frog and Bart Simpson? Yup, you guessed it, both lefties. Jimmi Hendrix, Judy Garland, Einstein and Maradona. Ok, so Jack the Ripper was also left-handed, but then there’s always one.

For a while I had somehow managed to escape the previous torment, mental abuse and “cack-handed” jokes from those on the right side. Until Monday morning that is. My Pandora’s Box of painful memories was once again cruelly thrown open within the first minute of my first ever shorthand class. “It does not matter in the slightest that you are left-handed,” Mr Teeline cheerily chirped. Apart from the fact that I am totally incapable of using my elbow as an “anchor” whilst my forearm elegantly and effortlessly glides across the page, I moodily muttered. It was like being in Circle Time all over again, contorting my torso into ridiculous positions whilst sat at a right-sided tablet arm chair.

Unlike myself (left-handed just for writing) my sister is an unequivocal, unshakeable, unyielding purist of the leftie variety. Coming from a family where we were the only two left out, I would like to think that she copied me when it came to the handwriting. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the sense to make things a hell of a lot easier for herself by switching from the Dark Side for the rest of life’s tiresome little tasks. I used to giggle as she tried to cut out paper chains, cackle as she tried to peel a carrot and chuckle as she repeatedly smudged her inky letters (I curl my arm right around the world in order not to.)

But jokes aside, it seems that the world just simply isn’t built for us. Think scissors, fountain pens, doors, knives and my personal bugbears as a student, computer mice and highlighters. Oh, and did I mention the fact that according to scientists we are apparently at greater risk of developing breast cancer and psychotic mental illnesses such as schizophrenia. Magic.

But then I wouldn’t have it any other way. Parents thought, and in some places still think that they are doing their children a favour by forcing their innocent left-handed kiddies to use the right hand. This infuriates me beyond belief and could, I think, be potentially very damaging. Would you take little Jonny’s brain out of his head and switch the two hemispheres over? Didn’t think so.

Luckily, slowly but surely the world is becoming increasingly aware of the needs and rights of left-handed people. In his article Left Out, Mark King of The Guardian proudly declares that he has created his own “lefty zone” at work and schools are finally doing more to provide necessary versions of tools. So I urge all you southpaws out there to stand up and shout “I shall not be left in the corner.” Ultimately, we may be frustrated, ridiculed, accident-prone, ink-smudged, RSI afflicted individuals, but our heart is in the left place.

Incredulity, infections and ignorance.

When I was a sweet little 17 year old, three of my classmates had babies, another 2 had abortions and goodness knows how many contracted STI’s.

Whilst on my year abroad in Spain, I was utterly horrified to discover that I was handed the contraceptive pill over the counter of a chemist without the flap of a prescription or the formality of an examination. My incredulity was exacerbated still further on discovering that my foreign friends thought that the pill protected you from STI’s. It reached a climax when I was confidently and candidly told that, regardless of sexual history, everyone practised the truly senseless method of “marcha atras,” Spanish for “slip it into reverse.”
“Why on earth?” I cried. “Well, it’s better for him,” I was told.

Unbelievable. Not usually a pioneer for sexual health, I immediately raised alarm bells, leaping aghast onto my soap box to orate about the alarmingly growing rate of STI’s amongst today’s youngsters. I was met with the equally blunt response, “Oh, we don’t have those over here.”

Solution? Well in England it appears to be to throw free condoms from rooftops or offer them as alternative pic’n’mix in schools. As part of Freshers’ Week here at the University of Westminster, Smoke Radio has joined forces with Sexual Health Group Plc on a crusade to convert irresponsible imbeciles into safe-sex specialists by offering the chance to win a years supply of Condomania condoms.

In addition, the University Health Clinic also offer free Chlamydia testing for those who did not adhere to the “prevention, not cure” maxim. Hooray! Yet what is the use of all this complimentary sexual paraphernalia and testing if the user is totally ignorant as to how to put the damn thing on?

In a recent online survey published by the Terrance Higgins Trust and the National Union of Students, 23% of the 2200 students questioned did not know that condoms are the only form of contraception that stops STI’s as well as swimmers. Perhaps I should not have been so harsh on my Iberian amigos. And what is the use of offering free STI testing on campus when teenagers have no interest in going or are embarrassed at the prospect of a social meeting in the waiting room? I am very proud to say that last year I resolutely frogmarched my bewildered English flatmates to the GUM Clinic. But what if I hadn’t?

So how to quell this ignorance before it even begins? As always, catch them when they’re young. A massive increase in Sex Ed in schools is indispensable. Hands on, practical advice on wrapping-up would kill those playground rumours once and for all. And rather than becoming yet another infected statistic, teenagers might finally choose to play safe.

Colonising the Costas.

Three quarters of a million Brits now live in Spain. Perhaps, for a collection of Spaniards, a figure three quarters of a million too high.

Brian Hanrahan’s report on Growing Old in Spain for the BBC Six O’Clock News yesterday evening succinctly summed up the problems faced by the generation who fled to paellas new a decade or two ago. Now, forced to face the inevitable but without the necessary care, family support or linguistic know-how, the Brits abroad are considering returning home.

Why the surprise? Did these people really think that the magical Iberian mix of sun, sea and sand, or perhaps more accurately sangria, socks n’ sandals would render them invincible to the natural decline of their own unforgiving biological clock?

Age Concern have been sending nursing care across the water to the land of bull fights and boleros in order to “warn” the brotherhood of Brits Abroad of the problems of growing old. As shown in the documentary, bizarrely enough, they are exactly the same as those faced in good ol’ England. Well click my castanets and call me Manolo.

So how do our continental compadres cope? The fact of the matter is that the family unit in Spain is numero uno. For a Spaniard, it is incomprehensible that bread-winning offspring would contribute to the weekly bill whilst living at home. It is inconceivable that the whole extended family would not assemble daily for a two hour lunch that can only be described as a gastronomical assault of astronomical proportions. It is above all inexplicable that a granny with a dodgy hip replacement be callously tossed into a care home.

However, for all their effusive hospitality and gregarious presence, the Spaniards are unlikely to welcome an ageing Anglo-Saxon into the heart of their home. There is only so far the phrase “mi casa tu casa” will stretch. Spaniards naturally assume their own sproglets would come up trumps when the need arises. The sad reality is that the community of elderly ex-pats is thus forced to rely on itself to avoid paying for private nursing.

So, the moral of the story? Think long and hard before you fly, buy and cry out “where is my Carers’ Allowance, my benefits entitlement and my State help?” The Spanish people are beginning to realise that the financial burden of supporting a community of ex-pat Brits is not their responsibility. The British people, faced with incomparable medical care and financial aid from the Spanish State, and without their own family support, are beginning to consider migrating. Growing old is not always graceful, and no amount of sunshine or sangria can solve that.

It's raining hacks and blogs.

To blog. I blog. I blogged. I have blogged. I, Mia, WILL blog, however much it goes against everything I stand for, live by and dream of.

Initially, the very prospect of having my deepest and darkest secrets exposed brashly on the Web was not only terrifying, but considerably narcissistic.

However, here at the University of Westminster encouraged, or perhaps forcibly coaxed by a tutor whose mantra is the unquestionable, indestructable "no blog, no job," I have taken heed of my father's somewhat more enlightening and considerably less frightening motto, "don't just do it, do it with a smile."

I guess, if I want to become a member of the "respectable journalists clan," then I shall just have to get my head down and type, type, type away. Can I hack it?