20% of the UK population will suffer from depression – double 30 years ago

Dr Steve Ilardi is slim and enthusiastic, with intense eyes. The clinical psychologist is 4,400 miles away, in Kansas, and we are chatting about his new book via Skype, the online videophone service. “I’ve spent a lot of time pondering Skype,” he says. “On the one hand it provides a degree of social connectedness. On the other, you’re still essentially by yourself.” But, he concludes, “a large part of the human cortex is devoted to the processing of visual information, so I guess Skype is less alienating than voice calls.”

Social connectedness is important to Ilardi. In The Depression Cure, he argues that the brain mistakenly interprets the pain of depression as an infection. Thinking that isolation is needed, it sends messages to the sufferer to “crawl into a hole and wait for it all to go away”. This can be disastrous because what depressed people really need is the opposite: more human contact.

Which is why social connectedness forms one-sixth of his “lifestyle based” cure for depression. The other five elements are meaningful activity (to prevent “ruminating” on negative thoughts); regular exercise; a diet rich in omega-3 fatty acids; daily exposure to sunlight; and good quality, restorative sleep.

The programme has one glaring omission: anti-depressant medication. Because according to Ilardi, the drugs simply don’t work. “Meds have only around a 50% success rate,” he says. “Moreover, of the people who do improve, half experience a relapse. This lowers the recovery rate to only 25%. To make matters worse, the side effects often include emotional numbing, sexual dysfunction and weight gain.”

As a respected clinical psychologist and university professor, Ilardi’s views are hard to dismiss. A research team at his workplace, the University of Kansas, has been testing his system – known as TLC (Therapeutic Lifestyle Change) – in clinical trials. The preliminary results show, he says, that every patient who put the full programme into practice got better.

Ilardi is convinced that the medical profession’s readiness to prescribe anti-depression medication is obscuring an important debate. Up to 20% of the UK population will have clinical depression at some point, he says – twice as many as 30 years ago. Where has this depression epidemic come from?

The answer, he suggests, lies in our lifestyle. “Our standard of living is better now than ever before, but technological progress comes with a dark underbelly. Human beings were not designed for this poorly nourished, sedentary, indoor, sleep-deprived, socially isolated, frenzied pace of life. So depression continues its relentless march.”

Our environment may have evolved rapidly but our physical evolution hasn’t kept up. “Our genome hasn’t moved on since 12,000 years ago, when everyone on the planet were hunter- gatherers,” he says. “Biologically, we still have Stone Age bodies. And when Stone Age body meets modern environment, the health consequences can be disastrous.”

To counteract this Ilardi focuses on the aspects of a primitive lifestyle that militate against depression. “Hunter- gatherer tribes still exist today in some parts of the world,” he says, “and their level of depression is almost zero. The reasons? They’re too busy to sit around brooding. They get lots of physical activity and sunlight. Their diet is rich in omega-3, their level of social connection is extraordinary, and they regularly have as much as 10 hours of sleep.” Ten hours? “We need eight. At the moment we average 6.7.”

So we should all burn our possessions and head out into the forest? “Of course not,” Iladi shudders. “That would be like a lifelong camping trip with 30 close relatives for company. Nobody would recommend that.”

Instead we can adapt our modern lifestyle to match our genome by harnessing modern technology, such as fish oil supplements to increase our intake of omega-3. All well and good. But I can’t escape the feeling that the six-step programme seems like common sense. Isn’t it obvious that more sleep, exercise and social connectedness are good for you?

“The devil is in the detail,” replies Ilardi. “People need to know how much sunlight is most effective, and at which time of day. And taking supplements, for example, is a complex business. You need anti-oxidants to ensure that the fish oil is effective, as well as a multivitamin. Without someone spelling it out, most people would never do it.”

“Everyone can benefit from the six-step programme, not just the clinically depressed,” Ilardi continues. “People who are too depressed to get motivated, or those who are very disadvantaged, might need someone to coach them through it. And before coming off medication, you should consult a doctor. But ultimately, the depression cure can work for everyone.”

Ilardi practises the programme himself. He’s never been depressed, he tells me, but it increases his sense of wellbeing and reduces his absentmindedness (his college nickname was “Spaced”).

It all makes sense, but will I try it myself? I don’t suffer from depression, but wellbeing sounds nice. I’m not so sure about the fish oil, but I might just give it a go.

Enjoy the sunshine, get plenty of sleep – and be sociable

Diet: The brain is 60% fat. Deficiencies in Omega 3 fatty acids can leave the brain prone to depression. Take 1500mg of Omega 3 daily (1000mg of EPA and 500mg of DHA) in the form of fish oil capsules, together with a multivitamin and a 500mg Vitamin C supplement. These last two are antioxidants. They protect the fish oil from becoming spoiled by the oxygen in your system.

Meaningful activity: Create a list of engaging activities. Use it when you notice yourself “ruminating,” or dwelling on negative thoughts. Even conversation counts.

Exercise: Aim for 90 minutes per week, ideally in three 30 minute sessions. Choose activities that are enjoyable and have a clear purpose, such as walking to a destination or playing sport. No exercise bikes or treadmills.

Sunlight: Natural light stimulates the brain’s production of serotonin, which reduces depression. Fifteen to thirty minutes of sunlight each morning is enough in the summer. In the winter, consider using a lightbox.

Social connection: The brain treats depression like an infection and mistakenly tells us to isolate ourselves. Counteract this by making a conscious effort to be sociable. Be open about your depression, but don’t let it dominate the conversation.

Restorative sleep: 8 hours of sleep is ideal. Use your bed only for sleeping, and sleep at regular times. Avoid bright light, caffeine and alcohol at night. Stay away from napping and turn down your thermostat at bedtime. Think relaxing thoughts in bed, and don’t try to fall asleep!

NB: The sections in italics were cut, or edited down, when this piece appeared in the Guardian. Read the Guardian version here.

Marcus du Sautoy: a national treasure?

Question: what’s a million times five? No, it’s not a trick. The answer is the amount of dollars you could win if you solved all five mathematical conundrums in The Num8er My5teries, a new book by the iconic popular mathematician Marcus du Sautoy. The book is based on a competition set up in 2000 by an American businessman called Landon Clay. Five puzzles, $1 million each.

It could be you.

Or at least that was true until last March, when the reclusive Russian maths genius Grigoriy Perelman solved one of the conundrums — known as the “Poincaré conjecture” — in resounding fashion. “Last week there was a glitzy award ceremony to present the first million dollars to Perelman,” du Sautoy tells me, his voice brimming with customary enthusiasm. “But he didn’t turn up.”

Didn’t turn up? “Mathematicians are rather quirky. We don’t tend to be interested in money,” du Sautoy says. “It’s the glory of eternity that motivates us.” In the eyes of du Sautoy and his colleagues, the Russian has achieved something that has no earthly price. “Personally,” he says candidly, “I’d pay a million dollars to solve one of these problems. It’s a small price to pay to become immortal.”

In The Num8er My5teries, these problems are presented with the flair and vim that has made du Sautoy into something of a national treasure. “I build up to each conundrum with some unexpected questions,” he tells me. “Why did Beckham choose the 23 shirt? Why do cicadas love the number 17? And how can you win the lottery?” (This final question, I suspect, may appeal to gold diggers who see the book as an investment.) “What’s more,” the mathematician continues, “I’ve made the problems into games like Minesweeper and Su Doku. It’s wide open for everyone.”

I am almost inclined to have a crack myself. But then I recall that my last experience with mathematics was at GCSE, 16 years ago (I got a C). If so many extraordinary mathematical brains have tried and failed, what chance could I possibly have?

“Every chance,” du Sautoy says. And I think he means it. “Non-mathematicians sometimes approach things from a whole new angle. The next winner might well be a reader of my book, who became inspired while sitting on the loo.” He notices my sudden amplification of interest. “Though of course,” he reminds me, “if you’re doing it for the money, you’ll never be a real mathematician.”

"Sha'anan Streett: peacenik hip hop?"

Sha’anan Streett, the frontman of Hadag Nahash – the biggest hip-hop band in Israel – is hung over. And the waitress in the Jerusalem cafe clearly knows it. “Black coffee followed by a big green salad?” she suggests. He gives her a wry smile. “You know me too well,” he replies.

Then he turns to me, sotto voce. “Last night,” he murmurs, “too many substances.” He motions to his “f*** the police” T-shirt. “This is my own design,” he tells me.

It is all very hip-hop. But there is more to Sha’anan Streett than meets the eye. For one thing, he is a devoted family man, in a stable marriage with three small children. For another, he still lives in Jerusalem; all the other members of the band moved to the bright lights of Tel Aviv. And most strikingly of all, he is the brains behind the One Shekel Festival – so called because it only costs a shekel to attend – which takes place every year in the most disadvantaged areas of Israel.

From the very beginning, Streett has been a politically motivated musician. His first song, which he wrote after completing his army service, was a droll, laid-back acid-jazz tune called Shalom Salaam Peace.

“I couldn’t play anything but the recorder,” he says, “but I could rap. And I felt very strongly about politics. I made 300 copies of Shalom Salaam Peace, and went round selling it in CD shops.”

One of the shop assistants was a musician, and they agreed to start a band. Hadag Nahash – which means “eel” in Hebrew, and puns on nahag hadash, or “new driver” – was born.

“It was amazing,” recalls Streett, “Shalom Salaam Peace went straight to number one. It was like a dream come true.”

Evidently there was an audience for peacenik hip hop. With lyrics like “a land that has peace is a land of fun/ and a land without peace is a land of foul mess,” there could be no mistaking Streett’s political orientation.

The musician’s ideological stance was sharpened around 10 years ago by way of a much-publicised vendetta with the right-wing rapper Subliminal. Streett, munching his big green salad, has little time for his old rival. “Subliminal is a businessman, not a musician,” he says. “He made big Zionist statements, but he was only aiming for sales.”

His view is apparently confirmed by Subliminal’s latest career move. His most recent song, At Me, a duet with Dana International (the Israeli transsexual winner of the 1998 Eurovision song contest), features the lyric “sexy, sexy, sexy, sexy boy”.

Streett is not surprised. “It’s only to be expected,” he says, “Subliminal has seen another business opportunity. He’s dropped his politics because it no longer suits him.”

Hadag Nahash, meanwhile, have made no compromises. Their latest album, released this year, features songs in Hebrew and Arabic, and includes tracks like One More Brother, a protest against violence in Israeli society.

“We’re saying it louder and clearer than ever,” says Streett. “We haven’t changed our opinions and we haven’t changed our music.”

This is reflected in Streett’s passion for the One Shekel Festival. Back in 2000, when Hadag Nahash were riding the first wave of fame, his immediate instinct was to help the poorer communities in Israel.

“That summer we played at the music festivals,” Streett recalls, “to audiences that were 10 times the size of what we were used to. I got off stage really fired up. In the toilet I saw two kids who were panicking. The festival was in Ashkelon, on the beach, and they couldn’t afford to get in – so they had swum around the barrier, and were terrified of getting caught.”

Then and there, Streett decided to do something. “I entered the bathroom Superman, and came out Clark Kent,” he tells me. “I realised that unlike myself, many people in the country didn’t have the money to go to gigs. That’s how the idea of the One Shekel Festival started.”

Since then, it has gone from strength to strength, attracting thousands of people from disadvantaged areas each year. Moreover, Streett has used the events to foster Jewish-Arab relations.

“It’s great to have Jewish and Arab bands performing together,” he says, “but it’s not always easy. Last year an Arab band made inflammatory comments about martyrs in Gaza. The festival was almost closed down. But when you see Muslim girls in headscarves wearing a One Shekel Festival T-shirt, with our slogan, ‘culture is a basic right’, it makes it all worth it.”

The rapper finishes his big green salad and sits back, squinting through rheumy, hangover eyes.

“I believe in three things: art, culture and love,” he says. “The festivals won’t change the world, and they won’t change politics. But on a small scale, they make a difference.”

"Devise a strategy for dealing with trouble ahead."

Hello, Jake, how are you?”

“OK.”

“How was your day at school?”

“OK.”

“Have you got much homework?”

“Yup.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, stuff.”

“Darling, is everything OK? You’re very quiet.”

“Yup.”

“Can you at least look at me when I’m talking to you? I’m asking if you’re OK.”

“I just told you, I’m fine. Stop going on at me.”

“I don’t think checking you’re OK is going on at you. I am your mother, you know.”

“OK, OK, I’m fine, everything’s OK, please can you give me some peace?”

“How dare you . . .”

Before you ask, this is not a memoir from my adolescence. It is an extract from Divas & Door Slammers: the secrets to having a better behaved teenager, a new book by the behavioural expert and inner-city headmaster Charlie Taylor. This dialogue is part of a case study, illustrating how easy it is for parents to alienate their teenagers.

“Teenagers have an inbuilt capacity to annoy their parents,” says the author when we meet at a café in Notting Hill, West London. “The sight of a pair of low-slung trousers, or a great spotty oaf slouched across the sofa, is enough to make any parent’s blood boil.” But, according to Taylor, teenagers can’t always help it. “Their brains are developing at a tremendous rate,” he says. “There is a huge amount of activity flaring in different directions. Neurones are sparking all over the place, making them go haywire.”

This means that if a cycle of bad behaviour is to end, it must be the parents who end it. “Your teenager is not going to change unless you change,” says Taylor. “If you do what you have always done, you will get what you always get.”

So what, in Jake’s case, should his mother have done differently? “Jake was sulky because he knew that his mother’s greeting had strings attached,” says Taylor. “Her real agenda was to hassle him about his homework. She should have waited until they had at least one reasonable conversation in the bank.”

Taylor is one of a dying breed of eccentric British headmasters, with crystalline manners, a posh voice and the air of a dishevelled diplomat. He has faded Biro on the back of one hand and looks perpetually tired. Yet, at the same time, he is brimming with joie de vivre.

He grew up in Notting Hill, in a family with a rich tradition of pedagogy (his “famously fierce” grandmother was the head of a prep school in Eastbourne). He went to Eton, then undertook a four-year teaching degree before starting work at a comprehensive. Before long he developed a fascination — and affinity — with badly behaved children. He has worked with them ever since.

“I used to be badly behaved myself,” he tells me, a flicker of old mischief in his eye. “Once, my friends and I tied up a teacher with a skipping rope. We were sent home and my mother was very cross. But all I could say was: ‘But Mum, it was brilliant!’” He pauses for a moment. “Maybe you shouldn’t put that in,” he says. Another pause. “Oh, what the hell. It was a long time ago.”

Taylor’s school in West London aims to get children with behavioural, emotional and social difficulties back into mainstream education. Since he took over the place has been transformed, and it is now the darling of Ofsted inspectors. “Don’t get me wrong — the job is dangerous,” he admits. “Many of my staff have been put in hospital by pupils.” He winces. “But we have a very high success rate. It’s incredibly rewarding.”

A key part of Taylor’s approach is the “positive touch policy”. “Being restrained is very similar to being hugged,” he says. “When I first arrived, I saw children attacking teachers just to get restrained, because they received no physical affection at home. So I told all the teachers that hugging was part of their job. They worried that it was illegal but emphatically it is not. It made a massive difference.”

His pupils also give each other ten minutes of massage every day. “There was a lot of resistance to the idea at first,” says Taylor, “but it’s so moving to see a scary hoody tenderly massaging another pupil. A lot of teenagers would behave much better if they received positive touch from their parents.”

So what led Taylor to write this book? “I realised that being a teenager in 2010 is much more complicated than it was in the past,” he says. “Mobile phones and social networking mean that children can have access to the entire globe in the secrecy of their bedroom. Marriage breakdowns are increasing and teenagers are bombarded constantly with images of sex and glamour. In addition, schools have been set very narrow curriculum targets. This means that teachers do anything to meet those targets, at the expense of everything else.”

All this, according to Taylor, has a detrimental effect on teenage behaviour. “Some parents are terrified of their children,” he says, “because they don’t know how to control them.”

In his book, he describes a father who “immediately gets butterflies in his stomach” when presented with a photograph of his 14-year-old son, and a mother whose pulse leaps from 80 to 100 just by “imagining her son for a few minutes”.

Taylor, who had already written a book about getting toddlers to behave, felt compelled to act. “Parents need these skills,” he says. “Deep down, teenagers want to be disciplined. They are not really happy running wild. That’s why I wrote this book.”

The central premise of Divas & Door Slammers is that teenagers should be treated more as children than as adults. Like a boy whose voice is breaking — Taylor’s metaphor, not mine — the teenager may sometimes seem very grown up but at other times will lapse into a childish squeak.

“Teenagers are trying to distance themselves from their parents and establish their identity,” he says, “but despite their ‘cool’ exterior they are children at heart. They still need their parents to be there for them, to give them cuddles and support.”

One of the best ways to improve a teenager’s behaviour is to use what Taylor calls a “6 to 1 strategy”. This means that every piece of criticism is balanced by six pieces of praise.

“When a toddler is potty training, parents instinctively pile on the praise. They try not to focus on the accidents, however unpleasant they may be,” says Taylor. “But as the child grows up, the praise tails off and parents can become quite critical. So, when dealing with your teenager, think of potty training.”

But that is only one side of the story. “You also need to have very clear boundaries,” says Taylor, “and enforce them with rewards and punishments. The best incentive is money. Teenagers are interested in little else.”

Isn’t that rather like paying children to be good? “That’s not the idea,” says Taylor. “You must target only one specific piece of bad behaviour at a time, and have a time limit — say, a month — after which you end the deal. If a child is living in a permanent system of incentives and deterrents, that can be very damaging.”

Parents must also take special care not to get into what Taylor calls “reptile mode” — a state of stress that prevents people from thinking straight. “Biologically speaking,” he explains, “stress diverts blood away from the rational brain and towards the areas responsible for ‘fight or flight’. You start making exaggerated accusations or wild threats. At that point, confrontation is inevitable.”

But how do you avoid it? “The key is to plan your strategies in advance,” says Taylor. In his book, he compares confronting a teenager to going into battle. “If you have a clear idea of your objectives and strategies for dealing with behavioural hotspots,” he says, “that will stop you seeing red and help to keep your reptile mode at bay. Eventually, like a well-trained soldier, it will become second nature.”

This sounds all well and good. But here is the litmus test: what about his children?

“Impeccably behaved,” he chuckles. “Obviously.” I look doubtful. “Seriously,” he says, “they are naughty but just the right amount. That’s what I mean by impeccable. It is the repetitive patterns of bad behaviour that you have to worry about. If they were all little angels I’d be very concerned indeed.”

As we make our way out of the café, Taylor is collared by a frazzled-looking woman on the next table. She has overheard our conversation and wants the name of his book so that she can buy it. “Poor woman,” says Taylor, after writing down the details for her. “I hope my book solves her problems.”

"We did it our way"

We were sitting on the sofa, surrounded by glossy wedding bumph, when my fiancée Isobel had a moment of clarity. “These people are thieves,” she said, tossing aside a brochure for Blenheim Palace advertising two wedding packages – a no-frills option for £16,400 and a standard for £23,900. “We don’t have that kind of money. Let’s set ourselves the challenge of having a lovely wedding for less than £5,000.”

I smiled encouragingly. It was late at night. Within a few hours, I thought, she would recognise this idea for the tomfoolery it was.

The next morning, however, Isobel was fired up. “I’ll do the catering myself,” she said over breakfast. “It will be a really characterful wedding.” I pulled out the Blenheim Palace brochure from my pocket. “But what about the magnificent setting?” I said, mournfully. “What about the after-dinner Belgian pralines?” She regarded me steadily. “We can do it,” she said.

According to the consumer watchdog Which?, the average cost of a wedding in the UK is around £17,000. Moreover, a recent report suggests that couples are being exploited when they tie the knot. “Hotels, florists and hairdressers are being really unfair,” says Lisa Barber, deputy editor of Which? Magazine. “They charge 25 per cent more for weddings than they do for other similar events.”

So how can you avoid being the victims of wedding mark-up? For us, it began with the venue. Isobel was determined to find an affordable alternative to Blenheim. I was sceptical. “We just need to think outside the box,” she said, “and find a venue which isn’t normally used for weddings.”

We began a tour of church halls in Winchester. These tended to be dusty, dilapidated affairs, more suited to WI coffee mornings than wedding breakfasts. I held on to the Blenheim brochure and searched the internet for 0 per cent interest credit cards.

Then we found it. Tucked away in the heart of Winchester was a desanctified, 17^th-century Roman Catholic chapel called Milner’s Hall. It had vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows and a large balcony; a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but it had character. It could seat up to 130 – the exact size of our wedding party – and it only cost £20 per hour. We booked it. Total cost: £200.There was no going back.

Next we had to decide where to hold the wedding itself (a non-religious ceremony). This was harder, as the venue would need to have a wedding licence. The fee at extravagant venues such as Blenheim was between £2,000 and £5,000; our local register office, on the other hand, was affordable but overwhelmingly bland, and smelled of eucalyptus floor cleaner. For a while, we were stumped.

Then inspiration struck. In the UK, non-mainstream religious ceremonies are not legally binding. For this reason, Jewish people (for example) back up their big, traditional ceremony with a low-key affair at a registry office, usually either before or immediately after the main wedding, which is regarded as nothing more than a formality. What was stopping us doing the same?

We decided to hold the wedding ceremony in my grandparents’ beautiful garden, just five minutes’ walk from Milner Hall. My uncle agreed to conduct the ceremony, which we wrote ourselves. The setting would be idyllic (and the flowers were there already). We arranged a basic ceremony at the register office the following day. Total cost: only £43.50 for the register office.

It was time to send out invitations. After some discussion, we designed them ourselves and emailed them. Not only did this save money, but it was kind to the environment. We asked a relative to take photographs, which she agreed to do for free.

In the following weeks we purchased our outfits. Isobel bought her dress on eBay. It took her a few attempts to get it right, but as dud dresses could be sold on, it didn’t matter. Eventually she got hold of a beautiful ex-display wedding dress for £90.

For my part, I found that nobody will notice if you wear a cheap suit, provided it fits properly. Most suits are designed for men with paunches and look terrible on those who have not yet had the opportunity to develop one, so I went for “slim fit,” at Moss Bros and it was fine. My suit, waistcoat and tie came to a total of £180 (more than the bride’s apparel).

I was beginning to get into the spirit. Through a friend, I was introduced to a jeweller who would deal directly with customers at wholesale prices. He sold me two 18 carat rings for £700, a saving of around £400. Cheaper rings were available, but Isobel and I felt that it was best not to compromise on something that would last a lifetime.

Then came the difficult part: the dinner. We roped in a Hungarian au pair and three of her friends to serve, persuaded them to wear black and white, and paid them £600 for the day. We bought the wine and soft drinks from a local wholesaler, opting for the cheaper prosecco rather than champagne, as few people can easily tell the difference. This came to £750 with free glass hire. Our local brewery sold us a keg of Hampshire ale for £105, which we intended to tap and set up during the dance. The cutlery was hired for £300 from a local, family-run business called Crocks, and we managed to procure sufficient white tablecloths through Freecycle, for which we were charged nothing. Finally, at a car boot sale we bought 130 dinner plates, of all shapes, sizes and vintages, which had the twin advantages of providing colour and creating conversation pieces (especially the Charles and Diana wedding plate). The plates cost us just £10.

Our food strategy was to keep it simple and buy locally direct from the producers, which was also good for the environment. The only exception was the salmon and potato salad, which we bought through Waitrose Catering for £700. So we sourced strawberries and salad from a farm in Surrey (they also threw in some fresh flowers), local cheeses from a dairy, and bread and a mountain of delicious cupcakes from a bakery. This all came to around £450. For £100 we hired a refrigerated van in which all the food could be stored overnight.

Finally, we found a delightful man called Matt Benecci, who owns an ice cream tricycle. For £300 he came to Winchester and set up outside the hall, so that after the dinner our guests could leave the hall and eat delicious ice cream while the Hungarian staff set the hall up for the barn dance.

Yes, the barn dance. Not long after we sent out the wedding invitations, I was drinking at the best-known pub in Winchester, the Black Boy, where a folk band called Made Behind the Bar were playing. They were great, and the idea of a barn dance suggested itself. Barn dances are far simpler to set up than discos, and have the advantage of being a great leveller, since everyone looks equally silly. I hired the band, who played during the ceremony as well, at a cost of £650.

The total wedding cost was £5173.50. OK, so we overshot by a small amount. To our relief, the day went smoothly, and all our fears of glitches and omissions in planning proved unfounded.

There is an old Jewish joke about a man who wanted a completely unique wedding, so decided to have one in the desert. On the wedding day he sees a dustcloud in the distance and asks a local man what it is. “That?” replies the man. “That’s the Cohen’s wedding.”

It’s safe to say that not only was our wedding affordable and eco-friendly, it was also one of a kind. I – and the guests – will remember it forever.

Oliver James: "powered by a nuclear rage"

On my way out of the bathroom of a café in South Kensington, I collide with an unusual-looking man. There is something of the artist about him. He is wearing a flamboyant silk scarf and a capacious greatcoat, and peers through his spectacles like a character from a wartime spy novel. We make our apologies and I find my way to the corner of the café to wait for Oliver James, the esteemed clinical psychologist and broadcaster, author of such iconic books as They F*** You Up, Britain on the Couch and Affluenza. After a couple of minutes, I realise I have just met him.

James removes his flamboyant scarf and coat and sits down opposite me, taking a nicotine tablet. “I’ve just had the photoshoot,” he says, “I wonder if they’ve made me look horrible.” I make reassuring noises to the effect that they’ve not. “Do you have children yourself?” he asks. I tell him I have three: a two-year-old and nine-month-old twins. He looks at me in surprise. “Fuck,” exclaims the clinical psychologist.

James’ new book, How Not to F*** Them Up – the follow-on to his cult classic They F*** You Up – is a psychological guide to parenting. Unlike other books of this sort, How Not to F*** Them Up focuses on the wellbeing of the parent as a starting point for meeting the needs of the child. In reality, James argues, the happiness of the parent is “what will ultimately decide whether your child has a fruitful, sane life”. And sorting out your own wellbeing is not always easy. As he puts it, “The real challenge of parenthood is you, not your child.”

The centrepiece of the book is a method for identifying the type of parent you are, and thus what your needs may be. “Solid scientific research,” writes James in the introduction, “reveals that mothers of small children tend to fall into three groups, in terms of their approach to mothering and the basic feeling they have about under-threes.” These groups are: Organisers, Huggers, and Fleximums (“Flexis”). As one might imagine, each group has its own qualities, challenges and requirements. The idea is that understanding which group you fall into can allow you to ensure not only that your children get what they need, but that you get what you need, too.

Before I have a chance to open the interview, James asks how I’ve been coping with my three young children. It is immediately evident that he is a sensitive listener, showing no sign of judgement or impatience. For a few minutes, I almost forget who is interviewing whom. I find myself revealing that my other half, Isobel, breastfed all of our children exclusively ‘ until they were six months old. I explain that we’ve never put our children into a routine or sent them to nurseries. Rather, Isobel looks after them at home and finds it hugely rewarding. Moreover, I work from home myself and take on as much of the childcare as possible. When my first child was born, I took six weeks of paternity leave. It didn’t feel like nearly enough.

“You’re Huggers,” says James conclusively, picking up a lettuce leaf with his fingers, “no doubt about it. A pretty classic case. Around 25 per cent of the UK population are Huggers, so you’re not alone.” So what is a Hugger? And how does it help me to know I can count myself among them?

According to How Not to F*** Them Up, the defining principle of the Hugger is to “place the needs of the baby ahead of everything”. The baby may sleep in the Huggers’ bed, be fed on demand, and made into the centre of their world. The Hugger mother “luxuriates in motherhood, happy to put her life on hold for at least three years. She adores being with her under-threes.” The idea of placing the kid in a nursery and going back to work is – to the Hugger – completely anathema.

“Hugger mothers give their children a wonderful start in life,” says James, gesturing with his bunched-up lettuce leaf. “Under-threes need constant, sensitive, one-to-one care, and Huggers certainly provide that. However, I was serious when I wrote in the book that Hugging can sometimes be unhealthy. Some Huggers have major problems with letting go of their baby and allowing it to become an independent toddler. I’ve known Huggers who won’t leave their one-year-old to be fed by a grandparent, worried they might choke. Those Huggers would certainly benefit from therapy.”

One of the most useful features of How Not to F*** Them Up are the Practical Top Tips, provided separately for each of the three parenting archetypes. Top tips for Huggers include advice on housekeeping (the classic Hugger is a messy bugger), disciplining toddlers (Huggers may find it difficult to “create clear rules and limits”), and – most importantly – “dealing with other mothers who disapprove”.

“When I was writing the book, my aim was to help parents accept themselves and their parenting style,” explains James. “The evidence shows that most mothers are liable to feel that wider society disapproves of their approach. And, in some ways, they’re right. Organisers tend to find the ways of the Hugger horrifying, and vice versa. I hope that through reading this book, parents will become more comfortable in their own skin, more confident to do what’s right for them, and less critical of the way that other parents do things.”

But James’ diagnosis of my parenting style is not 100 per cent accurate. For one thing, so far neither Isobel nor I have had difficulties with allowing our children independence. For another, we’ve never been keen on bed-sharing. And our house isn’t any messier than the next man’s, give or take a nappy or three. Furthermore, Isobel has been sporadically running her own business in parallel with caring for the children. None of these are characteristics of the Hugger. Isn’t James reducing complexity and nuance into easy-to-swallow chunks?

“You’re right,” says the psychologist, still gesturing with the lettuce. “Very few people fall squarely into one category or another. These are guidelines, not laws. You might be basically a Hugger, but with Organiser tendencies. And it is wholly possible to switch from one group to another with different children, or even, later on, with the same child.”

Notwithstanding my non-Hugger tendencies, I have to admit that when I read the section on Organisers, I had the classic Hugger reaction: I was appalled. “That’s pretty predictable,” says James. “Organisers exist on an entirely different wavelength, and Huggers just don’t understand where they’re coming from. Like I said: you’re a Hugger.” He smiles wryly and – at last – eats his lettuce leaf.

The Organiser is, in many ways, the Hugger’s nemesis. The Organiser believes the baby should fit around the parents, not the other way round. Retaining the sort of adult lifestyle that was enjoyed prior to the birth is of vital importance to the Organiser mother: her greatest fear, deep down, is of “falling in love with the baby” and, as a result, letting her sophisticated lifestyle slide. The Organiser has a long-term view of her family, understanding that getting her figure back and earning regular money are vital if the family unit is going to be a stable one. She is a creature of routine, returning to work sooner rather than later, and delegating the task of looking after the baby. “Unlike the Hugger,” writes James, “spending hours on end with the baby in your arms is not [the Organiser's] idea of heaven. Nor is breastfeeding.” Not surprisingly, the Organiser would be horrified at the notion of bed- sharing, and intolerant of a chaotic house. From her point of view, the Hugger mother who wishes to look after the baby all day for years on end, rather than work, is “slacking”.

“Many Organisers find it difficult to relate to the needs of an infant,” James explains. “Often, an Organiser mother and her baby are like two walkie-talkies tuned to different channels. As a result, Organisers find looking after small children boring or unfulfilling. But this doesn’t mean they love the baby any less, nor that they are unhealthy. It’s worth remembering that 25 per cent of the population are Organisers – the same proportion as Huggers. It’s just what some people are like.”

According to James, it is perfectly possible for Organisers to meet the needs of their under-threes through the judicious use of delegation. But they need to pay close attention to the sort of substitute care they choose. “The wrong kind of early care,” he says, “a daycare nursery, for example, or an inadequate child minder, can be immensely damaging for a young child. On the other hand, a father or grandmother, or a competent nanny, can do an equally good job as a mother. Indeed, in China it is the norm for infants to be cared for by their grandmothers. In the book, I paid special attention to the research that has been done into the best and worst types of childcare. Hopefully, this information will help Organisers arrange a substitute in a way that will be best for the child.”

The third type of parent, the “Flexi” – who accounts for the remaining 50 per cent of the UK population – is a hybrid, and may call upon elements of both the Hugger and Organiser as the situation arises. This eminently practical breed sees no wisdom in basing their parenting on a restrictive central principle. They simply make the arrangements that best suit their circumstances, whether that involves going back to work and delegating childcare, or staying at home with the children. The Flexi, James writes, is “the supreme pragmatist. Above all, unlike the other kinds, she is less likely to be plagued by guilt or fear of getting it wrong, because she neither blames herself or the baby for how things go, she accepts things as they are.” Flexis have the ability to set up an Organiser-style routine, then switch into Hugger mode if the child falls sick. “Ducking and diving if partners let them down or jobs disappear, their lack of unrealistic idealism helps them cope in the face of severe adversity,” writes James. “They are down to earth and do not see themselves as victims and, on the whole, they enable their under-threes as well as themselves to more or less flourish.”

So could it be, I ask the psychologist, that in the Flexi we have the consummate Opti-mum? James acknowledges the pun with an impish smile. “Not at all,” he says, “there can be downsides to being a Flexi. Primarily, this takes the form of what I call mental gymnastics, in which a Flexi fools herself that she is balancing the needs of the whole family, when in reality, although her own needs are being met, the child is suffering. On other occasions, the Flexi may chop and change as a sort of evasion tactic, to avoid facing up to the difficult issues.”

James, it seems, is making a rather liberating point: any type of parent can be an Opti-mum. “The goal – sensitive, dedicated care for an under-three – is paramount and non-negotiable,” he says. “But you could provide that in a variety of ways, depending on the sort of parent you are.”

Although the theoretical content of How Not to F*** Them Up is complex, James has made his book easily readable by weaving the theory into a range of real-life case studies. My favourite is Pam, a 30-year-old Hugger from Manchester who looks like “a model or a footballer’s wife”. When her baby is born, however, she shuns her glamorous lifestyle and exchanges it for a life of babycare. Her partner is outraged and coerces her to visit a counsellor, thinking there must be something wrong with such unyielding devotion to a baby. Yet the counsellor provides some unexpected advice: he advises Pam to dump her partner! James uses Pam’s case to illustrate the difficulties involved when a Hugger and an Organiser clash.

“I wanted to make reading the book feel like chatting with friends at an NCT [National Childbirth Trust] group,” says James, “but with the addition of an analysis based on thoroughgoing evidence.” It is this evidence that sets How Not to F*** Them Up apart, and prevents it from lapsing into empty postulation. Every statement that James puts forward is rigorously supported by the facts, all of which are either included in an appendix or referenced. In addition, a section entitled “Mothering: The Evidence” analyses a host of statistics to provide a theoretical framework for best parenting practice.

“Since my aim was to help people feel confident in their parenting choices,” James explains, “I knew I needed to provide evidence to support what I was saying. Otherwise it would have come across as if I were laying down the law.”

Strangely enough, the book is lent an added sense of trustworthiness by the chequered persona of James himself. This is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, and is not afraid to admit his own frailties. As a result, his theories come across not as condescension, but as advice from one fucked-up person to another. “Basically I was fucked up by my mother,” he explains. “She had four children under the age of five and found it difficult to cope. Often, I was left crying in my pram at the bottom of the garden.” According to the psychologist, this gave him an aggression problem. “By the time I arrived at Eton at the age of 13, I was quite feral. Not long after I arrived I assaulted a boy who mistakenly flicked me with a key ring. I was saved by my house master, who took me under his wing and helped me get into Cambridge. Although I went on to take far too much LSD, I gradually learnt to channel my inner rage in a more productive direction – that of my work.”

Indeed, at times, the book verges on confessional. At one point James reveals, “If I have achieved anything much in my professional life, at root it has been powered by a nuclear rage, that of the three-month-old screaming in his pram.” He doesn’t flinch when I bring this up. “I’m much better these days,” he says, “though I’m terminally addicted to nicotine.”

Reminded of his addiction, he takes the packet from his pocket and ingests another dose. The interview concluded, we bid each other goodbye and go our separate ways. In my bag nestles my proof copy of How Not to F*** Them Up: a book, I feel, that you can trust with your children.

‘How Not to F*** Them Up’ by Oliver James (Vermilion, £17.99) is out on Thursday

"they have always maintained that Israel has no right to exist"

Listen to the audio (5 min 54 sec)

Transcript

Just ten minutes’ walk from bustling downtown Jerusalem is the district of Meah She’arim, home to the most inaccessible ultra Orthodox Jewish community in the world. It is a labyrinth of narrow, winding alleyways, and the apartment blocks are rickety, cramped and overcrowded. This is a poor community where life is dominated by religious conservatism and a dislike for outsiders. Enter this neighbourhood improperly dressed, and you risk being pelted with rubbish or stones, or even attacked with mace gas.

In the heart of this labyrinth is a prominent building with a large black flag hanging horizontally from the roof, symbolising a state of perpetual mourning. On the walls are signs in Hebrew, English and occasionally Arabic: “Zionists are not Jews, only racists,” says one. “Arabs yes, Zionists no,” says another. “Zionism is the holocaust of the Jewish nation,” says a third, and finally: “we mourn the 62-year existence of the state of Israel.”

This is the headquarters of the Neturei Karta, or “Guardians of the City,” one of Israel’s most controversial radical sects. Their male followers look no different from other Ultra Orthodox Jews, wearing black coats and hats, and bushy beards and ringlets. They live in Jerusalem and have been there since before Israel was established, but they have always maintained that the State has no right to exist.

Inside the building, amidst the sound of chanting from a distant room, and surrounded by bookshelves that strain under the weight of leather-bound scriptures, sits Rabbi Meir Hirsh, the leader of this organisation. A diminutive man in his late forties, he conducts himself with an air of considerable gravity. “God exiled us from our land two thousand years ago because of our sins,” he tells me in a surprisingly sonorous voice, “and He forbade us to return until the Messiah comes. The Zionists have rebelled against God’s will, captured Israel and turned it into a secular state, destroying the very root of Judaism. For as long as the State of Israel exists, “ he continues, “I will be telling the world that true Jews hate Zionism and everything it stands for. This is my life’s mission, like my father before me.”

It is significant that Rabbi Hirsh mentioned his father; he has recently died, leaving his son to shoulder the burden of leadership alone. Moshe Hirsh was a legendary figure, who led the Neturei Karta to prominence over a decade ago when he accepted a position in Yasser Arafat’s Palestinian cabinet, as Minister for Jewish Affairs. In this role, Moshe Hirsh argued consistently that Jews should be living as minority religious communities within an Arab-controlled state of Palestine. “For thirty years I never left my father’s side,” says Rabbi Hirsh as the sound of chanting rises and falls in the background. “He was a righteous man, and a close friend of Arafat. During the intifadas we met Arafat every two weeks. Arafat was a wise leader, and very genial.” And, the Rabbi insisted, absolutely not corrupt.

It is the substantial links between the Neturei Karta and the Palestinian factions that alienates them from mainstream Orthodox opinion.  Although some Orthodox groups have a degree of sympathy with their rejection of the secular Israeli state, consorting with the enemy is one step too far. In recent years, representatives of the Neturei Karta have been ramping up their high-profile relationship with Israel’s most hostile neighbours. In 2006 they were welcomed with open arms by President Ahmadinejad in Iran, and this year they spent the Sabbath as honoured guests of Hamas, after entering the Gaza Strip with an aid convoy. The photographs from events such as these are striking. The sight of black-clad Ultra Orthodox Jews being embraced by Ahmadinejad and Hamas leaders can only stick in the throat of the vast majority of Jews around the world.

“Our Arab friends have never shown us any anti-Semitism,” says Rabbi Hirsh, “because we have no quarrels with them. Through using our influence with Hamas and Fateh, we have been able to stop many suicide attacks. We tell them they should be targeting soldiers, not ordinary people.”

I put to him that it is a tribute to Israel’s democracy that the Neturei Karta is tolerated at all. He shrugs. “We exist because God wills it,” he says simply.

I find it a relief to leave Meah She’arim and rejoin modernity. With the aid of an Arabic coffee, I sit in a café and reflect. The existence of the Neturei Karta is symptomatic of the complexity that surrounds one of the most intractable conflicts in the world. This is a region where politics is as tangled as the Gordian Knot, and resists all attempts at simplification.

Bin men. Judge, jury and executioner.

Never is the householder so vulnerable as when he has forgotten to take out his bins in the morning. Out he rushes, bleary-eyed, dressing gown flapping indecently, dragging a wheelie-bin like a modern-day Sisyphus. At such times he is at the mercy of the bin men. And he knows it.

“Excuse me,” he says, ashamedly. “Terribly sorry to be a pain, but would you mind? I’m a bit late.” And he stretches his face into the expression of middle class apology. (You know the one: the corners of the mouth stretching towards either shoulder, the stiff-necked wiggle. It’s usually accompanied by a sort of “eeeer” sound, or a gargled “sorr-eee.” Try it — you’ll see what I mean.)

The bin men size him up, knowing that they hold in their calloused hands the fate of the man who — metaphorically, at least to start with — kneels before them. They could relieve him of his burden, perhaps grunt something nice. Or they could turn their backs, dooming him to a week of stinking piles of rubbish. Two weeks in some places.

In my adult life, I have lived in Winchester, Norwich and London, and played out this exact scenario in each city. I have to say that most recently, in Winchester, the experience was but a few degrees short of a pleasure. The bin man in question was courteous and obliging. He took my wheelie-bin off my hands with something approaching a smile, called me “mate,” and humped it cheerfully off towards the stinking jaws of his lorry.

Norwich, however, was another matter. Don’t get me wrong; the man took the bin. But he did so silently, sullenly, forcing me to fill the void with an increasingly elaborate apology involving children, ear infections and uncomfortable pillows. Having sensed that I was an outsider, his strategy was obvious. “It’s worth taking this prick’s bin,” he must have thought to himself, “if it will make him feel like even more of an arse.” I left Norwich shortly afterwards.

In London, the bin man regarded me laconically. “Want me to take this?” he said, eyeing me sidelong. Then he said it again. After the third time, realising that I still hadn’t cottoned on, he sighed and rubbed his fingers together suggestively.

I was taken aback. However, my indignation quickly gave way to a swift tally of hygienic verses financial disadvantage. “You’re not suggesting…” I said. The man nodded and, to underscore his point, rubbed his fingers together again. There was something nasty about those fingers. I persuaded him to wait and ran back to the house, clutching my dressing-gown like a half-dressed diva. Upon my return — pretty awkwardly, I must admit — I gave him a tenner. “Each,” he said, gesturing to two of his mates. I tried to read his face. Was this a joke? “Do you lot take visa?” I said.

As a coda, I should mention the way that bins are collected in Taiwan (I once spent a gap year there). At a randomly selected time, the bin lorry will turn up blasting pop music from speakers on the roof. The idea is that when you hear the music, you take your rubbish out and toss it onto the lorry. It tends to work fine. Except that up and down the country, cars with loud stereos are prompting people to dash onto the streets with their rubbish.

'Bus Boy' by Jake Wallis Simons

'those infuriating little orange diamonds'

Ok, so I know it’s the election tomorrow. The most important election for a generation and all that. But it gets right up my nose when my neighbours put political signs up in their windows.

Several of my neighbours here have done that this week. All Liberal, as it happens. You know, those infuriating little orange diamonds. But what’s so liberal about intimidating your local community for political gain? Do they really think that, as I’m about to put a tick on the ballot sheet, I’ll be hypnotised by weeks of subliminal suggestion and be magnetised towards the Lib Dem box? As it happens, I’m a swinging voter. I’m not sure which way the prevailing winds will blow when I cast my ballot tomorrow. But I think I might vote Tory, just because my neighbours don’t want me to.

And what if I was a Tory? How would I feel then? Would I dare to put a ‘vote for change’ sign up in my front window, in defiance of the burgeoning sea of Liberalism lining the houses where I live? And if I did, what then? Would I be ostracised? Would people stare through me, walk past me? Would they smash my windows in the middle of the night, or put a flaming turd through my letterbox?

I know what you’re thinking. If you were a Tory, you would deserve it. And maybe you’re right. But my point still stands: election or no election, people should keep their political opinions to themselves. This shameless bullying has to stop.

Now I’m off for a sherry and a duck shoot.

NB: As it turned out, Winchester went to the Tories — a surprise result. Obviously those Lib Dem stickers had the same effect on everyone else as they had on me! –JWS