Hugging? Not in my day!

Last week news broke of trouble in Carlington Community College, a school in Cornwall, which has resonated throughout British society.

The school took swift action after it discovered that pupils were arriving late for lessons due to excessive hugging.

Headteacher Stephen Kenning has, according to pupils, “named and shamed” offenders in assembly and issued detentions, hopefully in solitary confinement.

This is to be applauded as a sterling example that the British stiff upper lip is still firmly in place and the country has not gone to the Oprahs.

It is not acceptable for a history class to be disrupted at the first sight of open palms in the schoolyard as this could cause pupils to dash to the windows braying “Hug! Hug! Hug!”

Moreover, there are concerns that hugging could be a gateway to higher experiences of intimacy that could have devastating repercussions on British society. The known side effects of higher intimacies include boosted self-esteem, strong feelings of affiliation, increased emotional stability and a reduction in alcohol consumption, all of which are detrimental to the British economy.

We are in danger of shaping a generation of wobbly chinned individuals who refuse to answer the phone unless someone gives them a quick tickle. This is an unexploded land mine in the bedrock of our society and we should act now to prevent confident, uninhibited plebeians stomping over the values that made us proud to be British.

Now that the birch is unacceptable, solutions to the problem are not obvious but maybe help could come from abroad.

Earlier this year, at a technology conference in Montreal, scientists from Singapore revealed The Jacket, a device that enables the wearer to feel the sensation of being hugged. A doll is allocated to a member of the family (or even an authority figure) and, provided there is remote internet access, he can touch the model and it will generate the exact same sensation in the wearer.

Trials on silkie bantam chickens, wearing bespoke jackets, were conducted to see if they would prefer the hutch that offered a sensation of being stroked. The silkies, over 28 days, picked the “hugging hutch” 72% of the time.

From chickens to GCSE students, it is clearly the way forward. The jacket could be designed in a variety of fashions, from blazer, to duffel, to hoodie. Likewise, the doll could be moulded into a replica of Simon Cowell and students would be able to experience the debatable benefits of hugging without any of the touchy–feely nonsense.

It is a perfect third way solution and human trials of the jacket could even ape the chicken run to see if it is possible to engineer students into enrolling into unfashionable subjects such as chemistry, physics and eugenics.

It is the perfect way to maintain a sense of Britishness in the future generation and it could be cheaply manufactured in China.

Flashbulb Mammaries*

The following moment is one of many, many reasons to love The Sopranos.

Tony Soprano is at the Bada-Bing, Sil's lap dancing club, when news comes on the tv of the death of Jackie Aprile, the acting mob-boss.

Tony silences the club so he can watch the story unfold.

Tears ensue.

The club is emotional.

One of the dancers, topless, says:

"I'll never forget where I was this day."





*I'm looking for a job writing headlines for The Sun

The Wicker Man

It seemed appropriate to watch “The Wicker Man” over bonfire weekend.

Penned by the scouser Anthony Schaffer, the writer behind “Sleuth”, it has everything you need to fully embrace a cult horror classic:

It was made in the seventies.

Edward Woodward, an actor whose name Noel Coward suggested sounded a like a fart in the bath, was pissed on by a goat during filming.

Britt Ekland, widely credited with inventing striptease in “The Night They Raided Minsky’s”, and allegedly responsible for giving hubby Peter Sellars a wedding night heart attack, used a body double.

The director, Robin Hardy, quit filmmaking in a huff for ten years after perceived studio meddling.

And just when you think your mouth can’t open any further, a thoroughly entertained Christopher Lee looms on the screen, says “shocks are so much better absorbed with the knees bent” and then reappears in a mustard checked kilt.

The whole shebang was obviously conceived with copious amounts of bong water.

The missing child plot begins with PC Woodward’s seaplane landing on a remote Scottish island, only to be told “this is private land” by the kind of local who does not have luminous skin.

Unsettled by the Arran polo necks he turns a corner, discovers a horse ambling down the street and is later served a plate of turquoise broad beans. He, and the viewer, begins to feel particularly buttoned up.

His unease grows. By the time Britt Ekland appears as the landlord’s daughter and exposes her body double, he can hear the locals sing “She’s the baggage we all adore”. With these words he is forced to retire to his pillow-less bed, his body clock far from adjusted to Pagan Standard Time, desperately trying to conjure visions of John Mc Cririck performing tic tac.

The next day, it transpires the community is making its preparations for the imminent May Day festival in a way that revels in environmental pleasures, but not of the kind endorsed by “The Good Life”. It is hard to imagine Richard Briers chuckling as he watches children dance naked or storing pre-owned foreskins in a jar that should be holding chocolate bon-bons.

Sometimes it just has to be Christopher Lee.

Trying to remain undaunted, Eddie is tricked at every turn as he continues his investigation. A combination of well judged pacing and a script that delights in unsettling moment means that Ed’s fear gradually becomes our fear.

The conclusion, whilst predictable, is still stunning, not least because it is preceded by a a highly surreal third act chase sequence – imagine “Don’t look Now” visualised by Beatrix Potter. The singing, animal-headed people celebrating the crowning of the Queen of May is a truly frightening indelible image. It projects an X-Factor audition for the kind of person desperate to wear the twat suit on Rainbow.

As the fate of our hero becomes apparent, there is a highly disturbing display of hand-holding-community-cohesion that is akin to watching the encore of a Val Doonican musical. At this point, no wonder Eddie looks like he has just heard the words “low count” from the attractive nurse at the fertility clinic.

And then it gets worse.

I urge you to watch The Wicker Man.

It’s short, it’s original and it reminds you rituals can be frightening even without morris dancing.