Breast is best

We can all breathe a sigh of relief. After a hectic schedule of posing for awkward photos with underpaid waitresses to laugh off the tip-troversy in Tuscany, David Cameron is back to restore law and order to our crime-ravaged streets.

Having initially dismissed the situation as a storm in a cappuccino cup, he soon realised that this was his Hurricane Katrina moment. And he had no intention of rocking up in Tottenham to smile and commend everyone for a job well done. Inspired by the reactionary rantings of an increasingly right-wing populace, Cameron got his game-face on and declared that "There are pockets of our society that are not just broken, but frankly sick."

Clearly relishing the chance to dish out the tough talk from a safe distance, like a gobby punter screaming at ice hockey players from behind the plexiglass, Cameron set out his hardline approach to quelling civil unrest. In his new arsenal - rubber bullets, a rejection of "phony human rights", and "contingency plans for water cannon to be available at 24 hours' notice." In spite of Cameron's Charles Bronson-esque tough talk, the police are maintaining a more cautious perspective. Probably on account of the fact that they're the ones on the front line, rather than our blotchy-faced premier.

Sir Hugh Orde, president of the Association of Chief Police Officers, claimed that water cannons are an unnecessary measure, stating "The evidence from your camera people shows that these are fast-moving crowds where water canon would not be appropriate. I don't see it as necessary, and nor do the 43 chiefs I spoke to this morning."

Even so, Dave's rolled up his corduroys and is hoping for a proper rumble. As he told the press, "We needed a fightback, and a fightback is under way. Whatever resources the police need, they will get. We will do whatever is necessary to restore law and order on our streets. Every contingency is being looked at. Nothing is off the table." So how about a compromise?

An enterprising rabble-rouser in the States found an unusual way of controlling the crowds, even if they were sheriff's deputies attempting to break up a domestic dispute she was involved in. Stephanie Robinette from Ohio got into a fight with her husband and took refuge in their car. When police arrived on the scene and attempted to pull her out of the car, she whipped out her right tit and hosed down the officers with her breast milk. Forget about police reinforcements and special dispensation for water cannons - all we need is a line of sturdy wet nurses, willing to flop one out and express some calcium-rich justice at the unruly mob.

If the force of the jets doesn't stop them in their tracks, maybe their queasiness about lactation will. Remember back in February, when Icecreamists offered up Baby Gaga ice-cream made from lady milk? It may have only been 15 women squeezing their norks into a butter churn full of Madagascan vanilla pods, but the press reaction made it sound like entrepreneur Matt O'Connor was selling soap harvested from human fat.

Proponents of suckling have been arguing the point for years, but now it seems we might finally have proof that breast is indeed best. When it comes to a showdown between the activists and the lactivists, I know which group my money's on. And it'll make Newsnight a lot more watchable.

It's what's inside that counts

I don't care if it's a portent of our gradual slide into metrosexuality, I love my manbag. After all, what's the point of having a good jacket, or a slim-fitted pair of jeans, if you've got to stuff half your worldly belongings into the pockets every time you go out? You end up looking like Bob Hoskins trying to hide Roger Rabbit from the weasel police.

Women may spend half their time rummaging round their handbags like a spelunker with a broken torch, but at least they've got somewhere to keep their oddments. The only downside of course, is that with unlimited capacity comes a lack of selectivity. There's really no need to decide on the essentials when you can just throw everything in there and worry about finding it later.

Weirdly, for one woman in Scranton, New Jersey, the same rules apply, even when she leaves her purse at home. Karin Mackaliunas was picked up by the police, having crashed her car on Sunday evening after a suspected burglary. Having already found three bags of heroin in her jacket pocket, the officers' suspicions were raised when they noticed their quarry 'fidgeting in the backseat of the cruiser'.

Back at the police station, Mackaliunas originally resisted a closer inspection, before admitting that she had more items about her person. Fans of exploitative chained heat movies will be fully aware of the concept of 'crotching' contraband. However, Karin demonstrated an accommodating nature that would have most women reaching for the pelvic floor exercise book.

When doctors inspected her at the Community Medical Centre, they found "54 bags of heroin, 31 empty bags used to package heroin, 8.5 prescription pills and $51.22" in her vagina. The fifty dollars I can understand, but I'd probably have left the change behind. Using bodily cavities for transporting drugs is nothing new, but the term 'mule' seems somehow inadequate - Karin's more of a carthorse.

Once the bags of heroin had been counted, and the after hours party hastily arranged, Karin was charged with "possession with intent to deliver a controlled substance, possession of drug paraphernalia and two counts of possession of a controlled substance." Although I don't know why they stopped there, surely they could have also prosecuted her for running a self-storage business with insufficient insurance.

The smear test

In the world of political tactics, the smear attack is as predictable as kissing a baby or gripping the hand of your recently-wronged partner in a photogenic post-affair display of solidarity. As soon as someone appears to threaten your cosy, moat-draining, duck house-building existence, you need to drag their name through the dirt and shift press attention onto them instead.

The world's media are a bunch of magpies - throw them something shiny and they're easily distracted from the matter at hand. However, if you really want that mud to stick, you have to ensure plausible deniability so that no-one can trace the story back to you. If only someone had pointed that out to the Swedish government, who are currently high-fiving themselves about their successful plot to eradicate the threat to international security posed by Julian Assange.

In the last month, the defiant Australian has leaked over 250,000 classified U.S diplomatic cables on his website WikiLeaks; in the process infuriating the world's most powerful people, and Prince Andrew. A vocal advocate of the freedom of speech, Assange has argued that the documents he's leaked shine a light on the nefarious espionage techniques employed by countries like the U.S., that ironically profess to export democracy and fairness.

So I guess no-one's too surprised that Assange's been silenced quicker than you can say 'concrete shoes'. Following the 'leak' of the news that he was wanted for questioning by Swedish police in connection with sexual assault charges, extradition proceedings were quickly implemented. This morning, a defiant but cooperative Assange turned himself into London police.

The police may claim to be taking the charges seriously, but I find it hard to believe that anyone else is - this whole plot sounds dodgier than Ke$ha singing acapella. Not least because the women involved seem to be less-than-credible witnesses.

Both freely admit to having consensual sex with Assange - and why not, he looks like Baz Luhrmann doing Morten Harket on Stars In Their Eyes. That rugged 'silver fox' appearance, coupled with the whole rule-breaking freedom fighter image, would make him a worthy notch on anyone's ethically-sourced bedpost.

They also enjoyed cordial relations with him after their respective sexual encounters, and only concocted their accusations of sexual assault and rape after conferring with one another. Irrespective of the validity of the charges, it's interesting that within 48 hours of the women speaking to police, the "news had leaked to the Press" who wasted no time reporting it.

There should be a delicious irony in the story of an arrogant man being undone by the dubious practices that he himself championed. But then, isn't that precisely how this whole counter-attack has been engineered?

This is the powers-that-be playing SuperNanny and attempting to teach an unruly child a lesson. Unfortunately, it's likely to have the opposite effect, because the overriding message here is that leaks and media manipulation are both acceptable practices, assuming that they work in one's favour. As well as running the risk of making Assange a martyr to the cause, their actions will also cast a shadow of associated doubt onto the testimony of countless real victims of rape and sexual assault.

I hope that the two women at the heart of this story, illustrated in the papers looking like two Tetris screengrabs, reconsider their role in this woefully misconceived conspiracy. Maybe they're just unhappy at how quickly Assange was able to fuck them and move on - which is pretty much how the political figures at the heart of the WikiLeaks scandal must be feeling too. But when even the Daily Mail voices concerns that this is just a "dirty tricks campaign" on the part of the U.S. government, it's clear that their believability needs some work.

The morning after the night before

As we sit in the hotel waiting for our transfer to the airport, I'm tempted to have one last drink to toast my holiday. But my liver has other ideas, since I've treated it with about as much consideration as Bernard Matthews has for poultry.

Despite the excessive alcohol consumption during this particular holiday, I'm happy to report that I've managed to avoid the sensation of drinker's remorse - localised amnesia and a head that feels like it's filled with wet sand.

To be fair, it's taken years of practice to get to this point, something that 18-year old Jessica Falter will eventually find out.

She's been in the news this week because her high school prom got a little out of control. Actually, the prom was fine, it was Jessica that went off the rails, with a meltdown that made Carrie White look like the perfect prom date.

For American teens, the prom is an important rite of passage - a night of gaudy gowns, rented limos, wilting corsages and spiked punch. But going by the police reports posted on Smoking Gun, it looks as though Jessica went straight from the hair salon to the punchbowl.

Police in North Ridgeville, Ohio were called after several people had complained about Jessica's inebriated state. When they asked Jessica how much she'd had to drink, she gave the least convincing denial since Shaggy, yelling "You are fucking bitches, this is my prom, I'm not drunk."

Perhaps sensing that the impending Breathalyzer test might prove otherwise, the prom princess picked up a chair and began swinging it defensively, only to smash it into her own face. In the end, the police had to carry the blood-soaked, obscenity-yelling mess out to their car. That's when she "cleared her throat and spit a bloody ball of spit" at Officer Kyle Gelenius.

Her classmates' lasting memory of the night will no doubt be the sight of her sitting in the back of a police cruiser, kicking at the windows and spitting blood all over the place. Still, at least she had her magical evening immortalised in a lovely photo showcasing her triumphant hair-do. Although I'm not sure that a mugshot was quite what she'd had in mind.