by David Jones

More than 40 years after decimalisation, a substantial portion of the population still can’t get their heads around the metric system.

We have a bizarre mish-mash of metric and imperial measures, almost as though we wanted to be part of Europe but not quite.

Let’s be honest, most of us were dragged kicking and screaming into the metric age.

Today, you have to be 50-plus to have any detailed memory of imperial measures at all. We all knew this foreign nonsense would be a good excuse for us to be ripped off.

Here’s a case in point. If a quarter (that’s 4oz to us oldsters) of sherbet lemons cost one shilling before decimalisation, they still cost 5p (the equivalent of a shilling) for 100 grams after decimalisation.

But 100 grams is only just over 3.5oz (or should I say three-and-a-half?) yet predictably, the price of sherbet lemons did not come down to 4p for 100 grams.

Admittedly, the world does not revolve around sherbet lemons, but profiteering of this kind was widespread after D-Day in 1971.

Most products, by law, have to be advertised in kilos and grams, with pounds and ounces occasionally as the support act in small print.

But 40 years on there is still confusion and an ingrained suspicion of the metric system.

I realise these anomalies have been around for a long time and that I am not making any dramatically new revelations. But the continuing absurdity of it all came home to me as I was stuck in a traffic jam right opposite a pizza takeaway the other day and noticed a poster advertising two 10in pizzas for the price of one, 10in being a standard pizza size.

So why are pizza sizes still in inches? And take laptop screens. They are measured in inches. Why? I can’t find the answer to that one, either.

Even in France, the spiritual home of the metre and the centimetre, laptop screens are paradoxically measured in inches, though the word “pouce” is used instead of “inch.”

No doubt Gallic pride prevented the French from using “inch,” so they had to find another French-sounding word as a substitute. But a “pouce” is a unit of measurement equivalent to an inch. Possibly the answer is that the “inch” is the industry norm for computer screen sizes, but it’s yet another anomaly.

A quick study of supermarket food shelves reveals still more oddities. Packs of burgers labelled as “quarter pounders” can be found on sale, presumably because this is a “traditional” size and for the more common sense reason that “113.5 grammers” would sound daft.

As if to confuse still further, the total weight of the pack is given in grams – 454 to be precise.

And of course the pint of beer is sacrosanct. Mess with that and we’d have to declare war on Brussels.

The point I am making here is that some things cry out to be measured in feet and inches. In the real world, when was the last time you met anyone who said they were 1.8 metres tall or weighed 63 kilos?

The only concession I will make is to admit that centimetres are more accurate when it comes to DIY.

A measurement of one and seven eighth inches by five and three eighths is likely to result in a brain seizure for individuals like me for whom such calculations have always been as baffling as the origins of the universe.

DIY aside, this mass of contradictions will, I fear, continue until Old Codgers like me have departed this earth.

Then feet, inches, pounds, even pints, will probably be consigned to ancient history.

In the weird Alice in Wonderland world of European justice, good drivers who happen to be women will not be rewarded for their ability to steer away from trouble.

Men, especially young ones, who steer into trouble stand to be rewarded Men who are set to die at a younger age than women will now suffer plunging annuity rates.

Although women should benefit from sex equality, fourth fifths of annuities are bought by men. Male pensioners are already penalised in so many ways and this is another blow to their ability to financially survive old age.

All this in the name of European justice. This week’s ruling on a claim by an obscure Belgian consumer group that gender equality should be applied to insurance is nonsense. It undermines the whole basis of risk assessment. It also removes the need for actuaries. Who needs risk forecasts when you treat everyone the same?

The ruling opens the way for younger people to claim they are victims of age discrimination because of high insurance premiums. Older drivers with an immaculate record could then find themselves facing premium hikes to fund the costly accidents of the young.

Will Saga be outlawed for serving the over-50s market? Will young people’s holiday companies be forced to accept pensioners on their camping expeditions?

And as Kent-based insurance expert Danny Cooper rightly asks, is it fair that people living in London should pay higher premiums than those in Cornwall?

Bizarrely, there seems no right of appeal against this ridiculous judgment. Its likely introduction at the end of 2012 will penalise the best and reward the worst. How’s that for common sense, logic and fairness?

The whole thing brings the European concept into disrepute and gives further ammunition to those groups who are calling for the UK to get out of the EU.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of being a guest on BBC Radio Kent to discuss immigration and its effects on the South East. When discussing our association to Europe and the freedom of movement of people, it seemed many in the county were quite sceptical to the EU.

I was informed, whilst on air, that countless e-mails were flooding in regarding EU membership and it does seem the majority in the county would vote to leave the EU, if given a chance. Due to the debate being about immigration, I was unable to expand further. Why would you, if you're in favour, vote to leave the European Union? Is it just due to immigration or the undemocratic nature of the organisation?

Note: I truly apologies for the lack of blogging lately – I've been rather busy with other projects and medical problems, too. I'm trying to manage everything more coherently, seeing I do have another blog and other freelance work, too.

NICOLE Scherzinger might sound like an exciting new KFC meal but she’s better than Cheryl Cole. In fact I liked her a lot.

She seemed genuinely horrified when the laughing gnome and the other one with the neck-stretched t-shirt mocked the contestants. She was also more effective with her criticisms unlike “I think you’ve screwed things up” Cowell. Mind you, he’d make a magnificent Prime Minister.

Nicole’s also a persuasive lady.

She made me never want to eat fish and chips again after her disparaging remarks (who feels good after eating that?) and when Louis Walsh tried to entice her with a plate of fruit, I straight away felt very protective of sweet, sweet Nicole. Leave her alone Louis.

It was the last round of auditions for the X-Factor on Saturday (ITV1, 7.30pm) and this time they were in Mad-chester.

Fortunately, being in the sun bed capital of Europe they didn’t have to worry about stuff like getting stage lights as the orange glow from the audience covered it. If you look really carefully you can see a runner shining a torch on their carroty faces.

I usually stop watching after this as all the bad people have received a good booing off stage by a man who produced the Power Rangers single. But this all changed when go-go Chloe Victoria was put through to boot camp.

She’s got a daughter called Destiny, at 19-years-old describes herself as a “yummy mummy” and has more beauty spots than Derwentwater in the Lake District.

I imagine her head is so underdeveloped that she needs all that blusher/concealer/lipstick just to build it up to normal size. It did leave an awkward side-effect though. Her left eye seemed to be struggling under the mass of her enormous eyelashes.

Of course the real reason she was put through was to add some zing to the proceedings. It definitely wasn’t on singing talent because George Gershwin would have run himself over with his piano.

Chloe Victoria was recently accused by the tabloids of being an “escort” working under the name of “Candy”. It gives a whole new significance when she tells the panel: “I just want to blow you away.” But the audience were having none of it and were soon giving her a good booing after she turned on them: “Don't be tight, this is my life.”

I imagine she’s used to it though. It’s always embarrassing having one person clapping; particularly after sex.

“I think I’m definitely what the judges are looking for, there’s no one out there like me. I act like a star, sing like a star, dance like a star, dress like a star, I’m the recipe for a star.”

A star being a colossal, luminous orb of plasma held together by safety pins and conceived by a collapsing cloud of material composed principally of crop tops and ripped jeans. Yeah, she’s that alright.

My personal highlight was leaflet-distributor Valerie Roberts who looked like the love-child of Ulrika Johnson and Yoko Ono. Google her. You’ll see.

Nevertheless, I think it’s safe to say that the country’s next Christmas number one is secure when Nicole Prescovia Elikolani Valiente Scherzinger is on the judging panel.

So keen was I to find out more that I checked her Twitter page: “I love pickles. They're delicious and sometimes when you dip them in spaghetti sauce they taste even better.”

If KFC ever do a Nicole Scherzinger meal I reckon a spaghetti-sauce-dipped pickle will be included.