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.