MY theme is the follicle of man. Coiffure: it’s a hairy topic. People get heated aboot it. It was ever thus. Grooming of the cranium is supposedly the sine qua non – ken? – of civilisation. The Western world came closest to collapsing during the era of the mullet, when morale plummeted and nearly everyone became a junkie or alcoholic.

Recently, North Korean statesman Kim Jong-un, fearing a similar collapse in his own unhappy utopia, banned all “non-socialist” hairstyles, with the mullet included as a harbinger of the “yellow wind of capitalism”.

But, just a minute, it’s reported this week that the mullet is making a comeback in Blighty, after being sported by top pop singer William Eilish, if I have the name right. Possibly, this is follicle-out from the Covid-19 pandemic, which has sent many folk aff their heids.

But, thinking about it, maybe a mullet would be better than the ubiquitous shaven head. I’ve had many regrets in my life – career, partners, house, football team – but the greatest was cutting off my very long hair. Every falling follicle was a kick in freedom’s nads. It was a compromise with the oppressive normie dumbos who make up most of society.

READ MORE RAB: Sir Harry Lauder - cringeworthy cack or tartan tack? You decide

The hostility that long hair engendered was amazing. Once, I had a pint glass thrown at me in a pub. In another bar, a drunk gentleman exposed his penis to me. When I asked why he kept a chipolata down his trousers, he nearly did himself an accident with his zipper.

My dad hated my long hair and, every day, said in a military-style voice: “Get your hair cut.” This would be followed by some bilge about national service. And I would say: “Remind me, father, what did you do in the Army? Sell ice cream? Was it on the front line between the launderette and the chippie that you saw most action?”

Not being very macho, I’ve never suited short hair. I was better looking, while still vaguely hideous, as a drip with a centre-parting. When I decided that had to go, I opted at first for a half-way house, collar-length I guess, but it was the worst of both worlds. People laughed at me openly. Ever behind the times, I’d kept 80s hair into the noughties. I thought I was compromising with The Man but, by this time, Britain was all shaven-headed, a fair reflection of the country’s essential brutality.

For a while, I had a pony tail. It used to get mentioned in newspaper diaries and radio discussions. Bizarre. But hair has always occasioned angst. And not just on the heid. In ancient Rome, the Senate made chaps shave off their beards. True-style fact: Julius Caesar only wore a laurel crown to hide his receding hairline.

According to a leading journal of classical studies, the mullet was known in ancient Rome as the “Hun cut” and was favoured by rich young hoodlums. The Daily Star further claimed, citing Homer, that Greek warriors called the Abantes had cropped forelocks and long hair down their backs.

Here’s another true fact brought to you exclusively (off Wikipedia): in ancient Rome, women used pigeon dung to dye their hair. Hence the expression hair-doo.

Ruining my theory that short hair is essentially right-wing, the fascistic Spartans had long hair and groomed each other’s barnets before battle. Then they put on helmets to let it dry in nicely.

Talking of historic nutters, what about the Vikings? I haven’t seen the television series of that name, assuming it’s another panegyric for slave-trading terrorists, but photies show the actors with bald heids at the front and long hair at the back. Revisionist fantasists say the discovery of Viking combs proves they were civilised. Naw, it proves they had nits.

In today’s advanced civilisation, only a nit would sport a mullet. But, in a free society, people must be free to do what they will with their heids. I have a dream that, one day, we shall all live as one, the bald and the hirsute, the receding and the bouffant, the shaven and the be-mulleted. But I suspect that follicular intolerance is a fact of human life, and that such a day is a long way off.

The Herald: Rab as the long-haired lot he used to beRab as the long-haired lot he used to be

House of correction

I’VE been asked by my humble friends at the much loved House of Lords to point out that the 214 bottles of Prosecco and champagne quaffed last year, and mentioned briefly in last week’s bombshell column, were sold at a profit thereby obviating any cost to the taxpayer in buying it in. Why, they even earned a few bob for the public kitty. Fair point?

If you’re thinking of popping in for a swift one yourself, by the way, at least when things get back to abnormal, a bottle of Brut was listed at £50 a pop last year, or £55 for the rosé version with its “fine breadth of bubbles”. If you’re only half a man, you can get a half-pint of draft Lord’s own-brand lager for £2.80.

To hell with hardship and austerity! When this pandemic is finally blootered, let’s all head yonder and live like lords for a day.

A castle for the people

HOW surprising to see Lauriston Castle as promo backdrop for new TV series, Darren McGarvey’s Class Wars. Lauriston is one of my favourite places. I would visit every spring to see the daffodils.

The classy – actually classless – joint is in northern Edinburgh, on the fringes of the Forth. It’s not really a castle but a 16th century tower house with 19th century additions.

The point is: it’s cosy! The Reids, who owned it latterly, were a lovely couple, who made their money in cabinetmaking and fitting out railways carriages back when these were sumptuous. They used the same materials in the house.

They weren’t snooty at all, but forward-thinking and, to the local toffs, bohemian. Margaret stoated aboot the grounds in an old cardie. With no children, they left the property to Scotland. It’s now run by the cooncil.

I’m guessing the class connection for the TV series is because a local croquet club meets there. At any rate, with bluebell woods, a Japanese garden and a nudey statue of goddess Diana by a pond, it’s more worth a visit than that grotty old tenement on a rock near Princes Street.

Barmy army

THE only way wee Scotia can organise Covid-19 vaccinations properly is if the English Army is sent in to save us. That’s been Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s trope recently.

But what state is the British Army in? A leaked Ministry of Defence briefing says numbers are perilously low. I’m guessing folk don’t want to join because it could get quite dangerous, ken? Then there have been complaints about poor pay and conditions, sub-standard accommodation, and variable vittles. ’Twas ever thus, some say.

The Army is so desperate that it has had recruitment campaigns aimed at “selfie addicts”, “snowflakes”, “class clowns”, “phone zombies” “binge gamers”, and “me me me millennials”.

Retired soldiers complained the ads made the Army look “weak”, though the idea of looking beyond the stereotypes was arguably sound. Besides, if there were another mega-war and we had conscription, the forces would, as in the past, be made up of all sorts.

It’s all academic anyway, as the next major conflict will be fought by robots. If they’d been available for the pandemic, we’d all have been vaccinated 10 times over by now.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.