FORGET juvenile courts. Forget ASBOs. Forget community service orders and genuine gestures of reparation.

If we are really going to be tough on teenage crime and tough on the causes of teenage crime, to paraphrase some political buffoon or other, it's time to bring out the big guns: badges and smiley stickers.

Yes, it's radical, but it just might work.

In the last eight years I have carried out in-depth, scientific research into childhood behaviour, and the effects of practical praise and the subsequent knock-on effects of withdrawing the aforementioned praise of a practical nature.

Okay, maybe "in-depth and scientific" is over-egging it a touch, but I have been keeping a close eye on my own kids, and having a good old nosey at everyone else's kids since emerging from York Hospital, plus one, eight years ago.

What I have noticed in that time, other than the fact that every other child in the known world can eat a yogurt with less fuss than my eldest, is that virtually all behavioural problems can be solved by a badge or a smiley sticker.

I have known kids who would happily strangle a puppy emerge from their classroom completely transformed by a lopsided badge with the words "Teacher's special helper" etched haphazardly in a wonky circle (it's always yellow writing on a red background - I have no idea why).

My own kids have been potty trained, had their tantrums forcibly removed and have learned to eat virtually anything that is put in front of them - including the scary, green stuff - with the help of homemade sticker charts. Two Bob The Builders, a Barney and three Pingus is equal to a copy of the Beano or a Tweenies magazine in our house, although I have been known to include a Dora The Explorer sticker as long as I don't actually have to watch the programme.

So why won't it work on teenagers? If they get seven smiley stickers on their chart, we could let them have their favourite alcopop on Sunday as a treat. A full month of stickers could earn them half a pack of fags, a litre bottle of cider and two hours' access to their choicest hoodie.

Unpleasant teenagers could be forced to wear big badges - you know, the sort that colleagues who don't really like you make you wear on your birthday - with embarrassing slogans on them like "I am a berk", and "I have never kissed a girl, but I've practised with my nan".

Come on people, this could really work. I'm going to phone David Cameron - it's got "New Tory" policy written all over it.


WHEN my daughter was born, we registered her birth at Asda.

There was very little fanfare, but it meant we could get a pint of milk and a nice bit of fish while we were there - something that is rarely on offer at York Register Office, although I can imagine a nice deli might do well in the foyer.

You can get pretty much anything at Asda these days (other supermarkets are lovely too - please don't write in) from DVDs to an eye test, and from multi-seed bagels - which I can heartily recommend - to light bulbs.

Which is probably why I wasn't completely surprised to learn that we will soon be able to have routine blood tests at Asda while we are queuing up at the meat counter for a quarter of haslet (I would love to know what on earth haslet is - please do write in). I have no problem with blood tests being offered alongside the blood oranges; if it stops the NHS from spontaneously combusting and keeps waiting times down, who am I to criticise?

But I would just like to double check who is going to be in charge of the actual needle-stabbing. If it's a qualified nurse with a starched uniform and a certificate, that's fine. If it's the teenage surfer dude on till six with the Wurzel Gummidge hair and the lopsided, no-girl-is-safe-in-my-presence grin, I might have to pass.

Last week, while bashing my shopping against the barcode reader and shot-putting each item down the chute, he bruised my plums something rotten.