Now it doesn't take a genius to work out that young Jemma must have been having sex at the age of 11. What is surprising is that her mother apparently knew of the situation and possibly even condoned it, allowing her child to cavort with her "boyfriend" in the next-door bedroom. The mind truly boggles.

When I was 11, I was still collecting stamps and had only just started smoking. The thought of playing Doctors and Nurses with members of the opposite sex would have been quite outrageous. Apart from the odd dalliance with Helen Swinbank in her Wendy House, of course.

The Atkins/Williams family came to national attention after complaining locally about the awful conditions they have to live in. Their three-bedroomed council house (and didn't you just know that was coming) is apparently too small for this multiplying brood and they would like somewhere bigger, if you don't mind.

For the record, this State-funded baby factory brings in around £31,000 a year in benefits, paid for by you and me. They pay no rent or council tax. They have a big telly and a DVD player. And a freezer full of Findus Crispy Pancakes. And free lottery tickets every Saturday.

So who do we blame for this situation? Who do we take to task for the fact that an 11-year-old girl is having sex with the connivance of her own mother? Well not the feckless Ms Atkins for a start. She blames the schools and the government. According to her, none of her children received sufficient sex education at school and therefore fell foul of what they thought was innocent horseplay.

What rubbish. Innocent horseplay at the age of 11 is playing conkers and tag in the playground. Not re-enacting porn films with a boy just out of long trousers while your mother sleeps in the next bedroom. As a parent I feel sick to even think about it. Frankly, I'd call the police. The woman is an accomplice to a clear-cut case of statutory rape.

And anyway, the fact that her eldest daughter, Natasha, managed to sleep her way through two miscarriages and an abortion before producing a child gives lie to that assertion. Hadn't the stupid girl worked out by then what was causing the morning sickness and the craving for coal?

But however horrific these local difficulties might be, we have to accept that for many children, shelling out illegitimate kids like a Birds Eye combine harvester is simply a career move. They have no ambition, no plans for the life ahead. A quick bunk-up with a passing hoodie and Hey Presto! They're someone, they're a mother.

And with that status come the rewards. Benefits sufficient enough to provide a steady supply of cheap white cider, packets of Lambert & Butlers and some Elizabeth Duke bling. Food for the cuckoos in the nest, even if it does only amount to microwave pizzas and oven chips. And perhaps even their own council flats, where they can entertain further passing scrotes.

Then come the ASBOs, the additional multi-coloured kids, the elasticated waistbands, the tattoos and, eventually, the disability benefits from obesity and chronic smoking. With a bit of luck, the ever-swelling brood will by then be asthmatic, reaping further rewards. And special needs, of course. Which means a free car. It's like Bingo, only in real life.

And you have to say, as a career plan it beats working your balls off for 50 years only to find out that your pension has been swallowed up by the demands of the welfare state. And Gordon Brown.

In other countries such teenage fecundity would be encouraged. After all, we need more citizens coming into the workforce to help look after the swelling ranks of the old. There is only one problem with that theory. In all likelihood, the offspring of the likes of Natasha, Jade and Jemma will merely continue the cycle of state-funded leeching. They won't contribute to society. They'll just continue to take, setting up baby factories and feral hoodie gangs of their own.

There is only one way to tackle this problem. Before any woman under the age of 25 is allowed to have a child, she must first obtain a Baby Licence. She will only be able to do this by first proving that she has the basic intelligence, the financial means, and the secure family structure that will allow her to bring up the child properly.

Any tracksuit-wearing trollop who "falls pregnant" whilst not in possession of a licence will face a compulsory termination. End of story. (And don't pull that face at me, Ms Middle Class Lefty. It suited you to have your potential sprog aborted when promotion beckoned. All we're doing is making the decision for those incapable of reasoning for themselves.)

And do you know the saddest aspect of this story? I've had to abandon this column's Scrote of the Year Contest. Once Julie Atkins appeared on the scene, there was only one winner.

I am hesitant to jump upon the bandwagon of BBC complaints, but could I possibly have my old television weather graphics back?

As you may have noticed, the venerated Baghdad Broadcasting Corporation has dumped the old magnetic weather symbols and now inflicts upon us a nauseating, virtual-reality, roller-coaster ride around Britain instead.

Listen, you lentil-eating, leather-elbowed Lefties. This is a sea-faring nation. We exported goods all around the world, we built railways across continents, we discovered the Spice Routes and we turned half of the globe pink. We beat the French at Trafalgar, we were nearly starved to death by Hitler's U-Boats and we needed the weather window in order to invade Normandy.

We couldn't have done all this without meteorological information: the troughs, the anticyclones, the prevailing south-westerlies, and the Siberian winds in winter. I want my Atlantic weather system chart back and I want my isobars back, pronto.

Can you be cruel to a Dalek? Given that they're the Earth's biggest enemies, one wouldn't have thought so. Yet the British Board of Film Classification has decreed that the forthcoming DVD of the new Doctor Who series has to be given the classification "12", meaning that it can't be seen by new mothers from Derby.

A spokesman for the board (no, really) says: "However cross one might be with a Dalek, being cruel to it is not the way to deal with the issue." I hesitate to ask which planet this spokesman might be from.

And we should also note for the record that this series of Doctor Who is beautifully made, wonderfully shot, brilliantly original, superbly educational and, at times, very frightening indeed. That it should appear on the same television screen that brings me Celebrity Love Island is just another of life's mysteries.

Natasha, Jade and Jemma might be interested to learn that an investigation into the environmental-friendliness of nappies has deduced that disposables are no more harmful than the old terry towel rags that people of a certain age used to be clad in.

This is a major blow to those members of the Turkey Army whose job is to convince new mothers that an evil smelling bucket in the corner of the kitchen is a better option than a bumper packet of Huggies.

Is it too much to expect that these advocates of nonsense, all of whom will be on £25,000 and free muesli, might now be sacked? Just a thought.