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.