There are few things that make me grind my teeth and cuss audibly (actually, there are hunners and the list grows daily). So it was that I may have been heard to mutter a few choice epithets this week with the news that a bunch of town hall functionaries in the benighted city of Liverpool want to slap an 18 certificate on all films that include depictions of smoking. It is, they say, for the common weal: we need protecting from images of people having a puff.

A "pressure group" with the ambitious title SmokeFree Liverpool (aye, another of those awful constructs with capital letters in the middle), which has backing from the city council, wants to stop youngsters viewing any movie with smoking.

The cooncil boasts a great panjandrum with the title of Head of Public Protection. His name is Andy Hull and, in a grand coincidence, he happens to be chairman of SmokeFree Liverpool. He has pronounced that his organisation "will use its powers to stop under-18s seeing the films in Liverpool" if the British Board of Film Classification does not adopt its proposals.

Just think of the devilish films that will be put beyond the reach of young people. No more will they be turned to the dark side by Star Wars. One in the series has a scene in which wur ain Ewan McGregor, as Obi-Wan Kenobi, is in a galactic watering hole populated with miscreants, neer-do-wells, oddballs and eccentics. He is tapped by a purveyor of cigarettes. "Want to buy some death sticks?"

"You don't want to sell me death sticks," intones Obi-Wan, cunningly using Jedi hypnotherapy to cure the fag man of his addiction. "In fact," adds the keeper of peace in the universe, "you want to go away and rethink your life." Now this anti-smoking message will be lost to the young because the film will be a certificate 18.

And think of all the other evil movies that would become adult-only. 101 Dalmatians! Never again will Cruella de Vil poison the minds of our children. James Bond? Begone! The uplifting Billy Elliot? Forget it: he will dance for grown-ups only. Never in the field of human cinema will Winston Churchill defeat the evil of Nazism for young audiences. And they will never see Humphrey Bogart squint through the curling wisps of smoke in Casablanca. I'm sure you can think of many more examples of where this fantastic stupidity could be applied.

Then extrapolate Mr Hull's determination to protect us from wursels. Drink will be next. It must be a dread influence on teenagers when 007 imbibes a vodka martini. And car chases must encourage boy racers to nick vehicles. This line of thinking could be applied to virtually every aspect of human endeavour.

I'm all for the ban on smoking in public places and wish more people would stop. But Liverpool City Council's plan is the last gasp of the lunatics.

On the subject of local authorities, what are the gauleiters in my Stirling fastness up to? The town is a pretty one, with much leafiness to gladden the eye. And at this wonderful time of year it is heartening to see the men in fluorescent jaikets out toiling in the shrubbery and green spaces.

But when there are public parks, verges, flower beds and swards all needing attention, why did I see this week two blokes in yellow weskits cutting the grass on weed-infested patches beside two condemned buildings on a peripheral housing estate? Both blocks are empty, boarded up and waiting for a wrecking ball. Am I missing something?

So Sir Paul McCartney has finally divested himself, messily and expensively, of the moll of Kintyre. Heather Mills has had her days in court and her rant on the steps outside. She has been pilloried by the tabloids and traduced by just about everyone, including the judge.

However, if one thing worth-while came from the stramash, it was Heather's dousing of Paul's lawyer, Fiona Shackleton, with water, presumably in a fit of pique at not getting what she wanted. Entering the court, the legal one was topped resplendently with a frothy confection of carefully-coifed, back-combed blonde tresses. Emerging from court, Ms Shackleton boasted a slicked-down wet-look (hardly surprising) that immediately made her look 10 years younger, trendier and altogether much better.

But seriously, the marriage was a bad one, and I'll grant Ms Mills that it is usually the case that fault lies on both sides. However, when she addresses the media pack and rails about the unfairness of the settlement, and how her daughter Beatrice is likely to suffer with an annual income of £35,000 (she is only four, remember), it's all I can do to stop teeth grinding again and swearie words being uttered.

Ms Mills has clearly now lost touch with reality if she can't manage on £24.3m and serves only to alienate herself further from the public approbation she so obviously covets. Many families in this country would be delighted to earn Beatrice's £35,000 a year, never mind trousering millions.

It's time she shut up. She hasn't got a leg to stand on.