2007 was a slow news year. There was mildly bad weather bringing infrastructure to a standstill, England were whitewashed in the Ashes and Celebrity Big Brother was born. Kulashaker released Strangefolk after a decade out of the spotlight. The album gave them another decade-long sabbatical after the album was hung, drawn and quartered then disposed of in a vat of muso-critique acid. The year was so lacking in anything of note that, to fill the cultural vacuum, photographer Charlotte Ruston collated a book called Ginger Snaps. Sounding like an Asda own brand cereal, the book chronicled red-headed, carrot topped, simply reds. The BBC jumped on the bandwagon as they too were struggling for copy and asked the pertinent and thought provoking question: Is calling someone a ‘ginger’ racist?

Without reading their findings, I surmised that ‘no’ was the correct answer as being of a redheaded persuasion is technically not a ‘race’. Jonjers are not a special case however, although they seem to have been made one. Rightfully tetchy to breaking point, even Tim Minchin sang of his strawberry blond brethren: ‘Only a ginger can call another ginger, ginger’. They are a much-maligned breed with a hair colour beyond reproach.

I have a friend who is incredibly tall. He has bemoaned the fact that random strangers have walked up to him and requested he ‘change the street light’ while he’s up there, whether it was ‘a few degrees cooler’ at his height and if he must ‘pop his head out of the sunroof’ to see where he is going on a car journey. He explained that he lost his sense of humour after the millionth lofty jibe. I placated him and said it can’t be that bad. At that precise moment, a friend of mine walked over and asked if he could stand on tiptoes and get his football off the garage roof before collapsing into hysterics. Tall friend gave a look of resignation and I ordered us a couple of shorts.

With our redheaded friends on the cultural protection list, the one form of ‘bodyism’ that is still perfectly acceptable to mock is baldism. I live and breathe it every day since going streamlined in 2005. Not a planned body reforming, I was coerced after my (now) wife inferred she wouldn’t marry anyone with a combover.

I’m at ease with my fate. It’s easy to identify baldies who are accepting of their folicled destiny. Those who shave it to the bone are at peace. Those who are seriously balding but clinging onto a bit of what’s left are the prickly ones and thus more likely to enter the world of weave. Being bald is cleaner, zero maintenance and stops you being hassled on the street as you look like a possible psychopath veering toward the far right of the road.

Dubious Statistics show that 2/3 men will lose their hair by the age of 35 and 85% will become chrome domes by their half century. It is claimed, and there’s some messed up logic here, that, if single, with hair, women fixate on the hair. If bald, women look at the eyes and it’s easier to create a bond. It also shows that if a man is comfortable enough to walk around naked from the neck up, they are comfortable and confident, 2 sure fire relationship box tickers, apparently.

As for me, I have embraced the barren follicled wasteland and it’s a no brainer to stick with it. Aged women feel the need to touch it to enjoy the aesthetics and Its a hit at kid’s parties where it has been known for upwards of 20 sticky fingers to rub the top of my head as I emanate a squeaking noise from my lips. I am bald, I am proud, I am Harry Hill, I am the bloke from the Crystal maze whose name no one ever remembers, I am Gregg Wallace and I am Kojak. Take note redheads, rejoice and wear your head covering with pride, one day it may all be gone and you will be forever known as deserthead, the artist formerly known as coppertop.