But fashions pass and fade. All the Powers That Be have to do is wait. Within six months, hoodies and baseball caps will be on the way out and some new sartorial horror will have taken their place. Red socks, comedy ties or spats worn with a spotted pocket handkerchief, that sort of thing.

Perhaps the answer is to set up Scrote-only shopping centers, where the slack-jawed, gum-chewing, feckless detritus of society can shop amongst their own kind without frightening the horses. (Yes, I've heard of Aldi and Netto.)

These "pleb precincts" could even have stores specifically aimed at their target market. Endless branches of Dolestretcher (where everything is 37p) and Clinton Scratchcards (where women with scraped-back hair-dos, inappropriate nylon thongs and dodgy tattoos just above their arse cracks could exchange the few of their children's birthday postal orders that escaped the attentions of the thieving postman for a few seconds of sexual gratification, scraping frantically away at a piece of cardboard with a milk token).

And then there's the MotherDon'tCare shop strategically placed next door to the Early Pregnancy Centre. And Sex Toys ‘R Us down the road near the furniture warehouse called Pikea. The possibilities are endless. Rows after rows of microwave pizza emporiums, Elizabeth Duke bling outlets and Burberry-patterned three-abreast pushchair shops selling lightweight easy-push buggies to 13-year-old mothers.

Incidentally, I ended up stood behind a typical Pleb Precinct shopper in Tescos at the weekend. The tracksuit-clad slapper had a complaint – and so did the rest of the queue as her three brats Shiraz, Carsophagus and Chanel No 5 laid waste to the check-out displays.

She was brandishing one of those disposable barbecues and complaining loudly to the poor check-out girl that … wait for it … there were no burgers inside as pictured on the packaging. "Just effing coal."

To be fair, the girl explained the situation as tactfully as possible, offering the screaming harridan a full refund if she wasn't happy. It was then that she noticed the detail of the receipt.

"But you bought three of these," she told the Bardsley in front of her. "Have you brought the other two back as well?"

"No," said the tattooed troll. "They're in the freezer at home."

Enough said.

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Nanny State update: Now I'm sure we all know that you should never scratch a mole.

Why? Because it makes them very cross. (Listen. That would win a Perrier prize in a slow year.)

I have my own procedure for dealing with these furry pests. My man Whittaker, having bound his plus fours to the top of his shins with baling twine to prevent involuntary mole incursion, then pushes lit bangers down their burrows and when they blindly emerge, coughing and spluttering with little hands held over their little ears, I despatch them with the trusty Purdy. It's quite fun.

Of course, it wouldn't do for the politically-correct bunny-hugging classes to enter into mole control in the same fashion, would it? Well, you could be wrong.

Council officials responsible for the grounds of Kearnsey Abbey in Kent are pondering whether or not to gas the poor blighters who inhabit the estate. And why? In case visiting walkers fail to spot the molehills and trip over them, thus leaving Dover District Council open to a compensation claim.

Now any experienced walker (i.e. anyone who has safely traversed their own lawn) knows that moles push soil up through the surface creating little hillocks. The sensible advice to anyone facing this kind of garden hazard is to carefully vary one's trajectory so that you WALK AROUND THEM. It's not exactly rocket science. Iraqis pick up the idea very quickly.

Perhaps the moles of Kearnsey are particularly cunning. Perhaps they have perfected the art of creating invisible molehills, all the more the trap the unwary rambler. Perhaps they're the hard cases of the mole world, with tattooed flippers and nylon Burberry thongs.

And perhaps the Kent courts are overloaded with a plethora of compensation claims for grievous injury? You never know, Kearnsey Abbey might just be high on the list of holiday destinations for coachloads of short-sighted Scouse pensioners.

But no, not a single injury has yet to be reported; not a single claim has yet to be received. But they might be. And therefore the moles must die.

To be honest, they'd stand more chance running the gauntlet of Whittaker and me. Especially after sundown, when the cheap white cider is taking its toll.

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Terror Alert update: As the tourist coach approached the Eurotunnel terminal at Calais, the security scanners at the police checkpoint went beserk.

For once, the French plod weren't on strike, asleep or drunk and stirred themselves sufficiently to declare a full-scale security alert. Guns were cocked, helicopters were scrambled. A major terrorist incident was underway. Except that on board the coach were 48 hard-core members of the Suffolk West Federation of the Women's Institute. And not one of them wearing a burkha.

An hour later, after sniffer dogs had prowled up and down the aisle trying to distinguish between plastic corset bones and plastic explosives, the suspected terrorists were allowed to proceed, it being widely agreed that nail varnish fumes had set off the bomb detectors.

I can't be the only one to think that the Gendarmerie had a lucky escape.

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When dozens of gipsy caravans moved into a field opposite the 70-year-old cottage in Somerset occupied by two ladies (who may, or may not, wear comfortable shoes and do their own carpentry), their lawyers advised them to keep a detailed log of activities on the illegal site.

When yet more caravans arrived, bringing with them assorted dogs, feral children, peg-sellers, tarmac-layers and out-and-out thieves, the ladies rang to the police to inform them. Imagine their surprise when the local plod, rather than thanking them for their diligence, warned them that their behaviour could put their personal safety at risk and that they should not inflame the situation by looking out of their own windows.

Apparently the gippos had been moaning to the swiftly-deployed, publicly-funded members of Mr Blah's Turkey Army that the ladies were invading their privacy by looking at them. Social Services rule OK.

I don't really know what to say about this. I think I'll just go and shoot some moles instead.