Blue rinses and bouffants will be out in force in Bournemouth this week, with hairdressers up and down the country having worked overtime during the course of the weekend to satisfy the demands of those ''extras'' who attend the Tory party conference annually.

But how will they view William Hague's recent ambitions to transform himself into an older version of Euan Blair with his 14 pints boast? And what can he possibly pull out of the mini-bar to eclipse Euan's dad's performance in Brighton last week? He certainly can't continue to play the ''I'm one of the lads'' card in front of the old codgers who will occupy the hall in their twin sets and pearls, even though David McLetchie and Phil Gallie might look rather fetching in such attire. They would all be horrified to see Hagie in Ali G garb of yellow tracksuit, skull cap, and sun glasses, despite the possibility that he'll be threatening all kinds of rotten things to asylum seekers, those on the dole, and the drunken yobs who drink 14 pints of beer in a night.

No, Mr Hague will be dressed as he was all those years ago when, as a 14-year-old, he tickled Mrs Thatcher's fancy with a conference speech that made us all sit up and declare: ''Well, if ever there was an anorak . . .''

He will mention the Conservative Party in a way that only he and Rory Bremner can, and his speech will be dotted with phrases like ''let's put the great back into Great Britain'', a hoary old soundbite that's dragged out from time to time, or ''this great country of ours'' and perhaps even ''a pint of your best bitter, landlord''.

His head will be dabbed with make-up and his fleecy-lined vest will soak up the sweat before it reaches his shirt, allowing him to look cooler than Tony did under the TV lights of Brighton. The blue rinsers will love him and proclaim him a PM in waiting while, in a few days' time, we will all have forgotten what he said, just as we have no recollection of the content of Charles Kennedy's monologue at the Liberal Democrat's gathering less than two weeks ago.

Thankfully, we won't be subjected to working-class heroes like Jimmy Tarbuck, Cilla Black, or Lulu, all former Thatcher campaigners, being cheered on to the platform to ram home the message that William has no chance of winning an election.

But who might the Tories unveil as their star to close the conference, a la Nelson Mandela at Brighton last week? My money's on Bernard Manning, champion of the unpolitically-correct and an archetypal roast-beef-and-16-veg card-carrying hater of

Johnny Foreigner.

n MIND you, any party that promises to outlaw the hundreds of mindless surveys carried out each year by all kind of organisations who, for some strange reason, have a need to know how often we pick our noses or if we lick envelopes from left to right or right to left, will have my vote.

One that caught my eye the other day was for the HSBC's home banking service and required the male participants to reveal whether their partner's snoring kept them awake at night. One in five ungallant men disclosed that their wives and bidie-ins snored.

So what? The whole ridiculous charade was undertaken on the basis that the bank found that 20% of the service's customers used it between 9pm and 1am and wanted to know why. Surely it is obvious that the midnight tele-bankers would make William Hague come across as nearly normal.

Whichever highly-paid marketing suit dreamed up this latest survey deserves a demotion on the basis that he has wasted time, effort, and money on such a futile and uninteresting exercise. Next, they will be telling us, after a nationwide questionnaire, of course, that most people don't believe Tory women do wear twin sets and pearls.

And just who is the brainbox behind Take Your Dog to Work Day? Millions of dog owners will, like me, not be wandering into our workplaces on Wednesday with a pooch in tow. Can you imagine the potential for mayhem? Dogs being sick. Dogs snarling, barking, sniffing, licking. Dogs cocking their legs against the legs of the bosses. Dogs trying to bite lumps out of each other as well as those rather more laid-back canine Casanovas who would much rather make love, not war.

So, come on Mr Hague, issue a rallying call this week to seek and destroy the instigators of useless studies and the inventors of crazy ''day'' events. Only then will you, Michael Portillo, and John Redwood romp to victory. Well, maybe not. But it's worth a go, especially as you seem a bit short on good ideas.

n THERE was much weeping and gnashing of teeth in the Granite City last week when it was announced that Sunderland - yes, Sunderland - had pipped Aberdeen as the winner of the Britain in Bloom competition.

''Ah cannae believe it,'' one Aiberdonian told me, ''We've got mair floo'rs than you'd ever see at the Chelsea Floo'r Show yet we were beaten.''

In the eighties and nineties Aberdeen went flower mad as they won the Britain in Bloom title more times than the Dons have lost goals to Celtic in recent times as millions of bulbs were planted annually to make the city colourful and attractive.

There has been a suggestion that Alan Titchmarsh, Charlie Dimmock, et al should be parachuted in to administer one of their favourite

make-overs. I agree; but why stop there. Let's have Anthony Worrel-Thompson, Gary Rhodes, Nick Nairn, Carol Smillie, Laurence of the long hair and frilly shirt, and all the others involved in making those dreadful ''Changing Gardens'' type of television programmes, crunch them up and spread them as thinly as possible over the once-floral areas of Aberdeen. Fertiliser will soon have it blooming-well back at the top of the tree.