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.