HERE’S something that caught my eye. Aye. A police chief in yon Greater Manchester wants his clerks, sorry officers, to smarten up. In particular, this includes no stubble.

As it happened, I agreed with Chief Constable Stephen Watson about pressed trousers, polished boots and indeed a clean-shaven coupon. You may find the last-named problematic in me, a beardie. Indeed, I had to ask myself: “Roland – is it Roland? never mind – as a morally upright ratepayer practising steadfast hygiene, do you think constables ought to be allowed beards?”

It was a good question, eloquently put, or put eloquently, and I had to answer: “Naw.” Aaargh, the hypocrisy! But let me explain my deceit. People in uniform should look uniform. It is not the place to stand out.

The hypocrisy deepens. For when I was a young postie, those of us with long, elvish hair took great pleasure in slightly mocking the uniform with our appearance. It was disgraceful.

When I got a job as a railway porter I was told I’d have to tie my hair back. But I only lasted four days in that job as I couldn’t lift anything or shut the train doors properly. Also, on the platform, I was supposed to shout out the train destinations but was too shy and mumbly.

Now you’ve made me forget what I was talking about. Oh yes, beards, uniforms and so forth. I would agree that sailors should be allowed beards and RAF pilots moustaches. For the post-Marxist, liberal-deploring, existentialist philosopher and DIY disaster employed in the newspaper industry, a beard is perfectly acceptable.

But there is no place for such swashbuckling facial ornamentation in a police officer – unless, of course, they all had to have them. Now there’s an idea! For then it would be … uniform.

Alas, I think there remains something dodgy, outré, louche, disreputable, smelly and syphilitic about beards, at least in the public mind, which is dim. It’s an absurd prejudice. When I got into an altercation with a noisy youth at the cinema, he called me “beardie” as an insult. I can’t remember what I called him. Rotter, I think.

You’ll sometimes notice too that, when a crime is committed by a bearded person, this is mentioned as typical or unsurprising, whereas 99% of crimes are committed by the clean-shaven. It’s the same with “loners”: 98% of crimes are committed by the sociable. Why do they never say, “Police are looking for a clean-shaven, sociable person”?

It’s also often thought that beardies are hiding something, such as their face. But I believe that the coupon, perhaps due to lack of sunlight, gets worse under a beard. People who’ve had beards for some time and then shave them off, never look right.

It happened to me once. I was an island where I knew few people and decided it was safe to de-beard my mush. I’d a big Viking effort at the time and took it off in stages. With each succeeding cut, my appearance improved. I had eyes and everything. At heavy stubble, I’d convinced myself that a handsome chap had been lurking there all this time.

Then I made the final cut – and, oh, my giddy aunt! – it was horrible. The skin was pasty and putrid, like a baby’s butt. There was a cleft chin you could park a bicycle in. I couldn’t go out for days.

So, you must commit to a beard. You must marry it. I didn’t grow a beard anyway. It grew me when I was ill. Now I’m a beard with a little man attached to it. And, as such, there’s no place for me in the modern police force.

Mug’s work-out

AS if going to the gym to fight the never-ending battle against The Blob weren’t enough, now our faces are in the line of fire.

They’ve invented a face gym which, fortunately, doesn’t involve shoving your coupon on the treadmill or doing press-ups with your nose, but deploying peerie tools to sculpt your fizzer in such a way that, in only seven days, you’ll become beautiful.

Sadly, this is aimed at women who, unlike men, care about how they look. That’s a lie: every man lifting weights at the gym does so out of vanity. And before you say anything, I ken I go to the gym, but I don’t lift weights. I just jump aboot. What I’d really like to do is act like the chaps with huge muscles: sit texting all the time. It seems to do wonders for them.

As you know, facial fitness is all aboot lymphatic drainage, ken? You need to depuff, perhaps by rolling a wee ba’ aboot your face. Get rid of baw jaws by releasing tension with a wee pressy thing. Howlin’ jowls? There’s a stainless steel gizmo for that.

Of course, a man in my position can never be seen sending off for embarrassing equipment like that. So I’ll have to use a pseudonym and PO box again.

I wonder if I could get my cheekbones back. I lost them around 1988. Think they’re under my beard somewhere.

No need for bad mouthing

Now they’re telling us to eat with our mouths open. Hitherto thought the height of bad table manners, in fact it makes food taste better, squeezing out the flavour, according to Oxford Yooni prof Charles Spence. This typifies the wicked sensuality governing modern life. Say no to Weimar-style mastication. Keep your gub shut.

Weel Kent

It’s unusual to read of Scotland not being worst for something in the UK. So, well done, Chatham, Britain’s “slobbiest town”, where the only exercise is drinking. The Kent conurbation is also bad for chavs, England’s equivalent of our neds. One resident said: “I’ve lived in Chatham all my life because I’m a moron.” Congratulations, sir.

Quiet desperation

Well done, John Lewis. Its Stratford store, in yonder London, is trialling a “quiet hour”, without irritating loudspeaker announcements. It’s even handing out ear defenders, a necessity of life in modern Britain. Next step: quiet week, where the only sound is an aspirational customer testing the quality of a waxed jacket. And being tutted for it.

Yins wi’ millyins

The super-rich are spending up to £1bn on curated social events, vying to outdo each other in lavishness. It’s like the decline of ancient Rome. Daily, we read of unlikely folk worth millions. Yet we normies don’t have even one measly million to our names. Some days, I feel so inadequate (reader’s voice: “Rightly so”).

Dirty desks

Following last week’s explosive nugget fingering sofas for muck, now we’re told our desks are three times dirtier than toilet seats, with the average keyboard harbouring as many germs as a kitchen bin. As usual, it’s microbes, the wee swine that they are. Ach well, what you can’t see can’t hurt you. Can it?

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