IN the heated debate on Europe, the passionate accusations of misleading statements, statistical manipulation and downright lying, one thing is certain. The first victim in this war of words has been truth.

And of all the truths that have been slaughtered the most worrying for me pertains to the once mayor of London, blond bombshell battleaxe, putative Tory leader and/or prime Minister of the rickety UK. Boris Johnson. He dyes his hair. Or does he?

Johnson admitted as much in a Sunday Times interview only to later insist the confession had been “a joke” and that he “never” used hair dye – a claim bolstered by his sister Rachel, who insisted: “All Johnsons are natural blondes!”

Who cares, you might say. And would anyone be surprised to learn politics at the highest lever attracted the most vicious of vanity? But seriously: how can a man who admits to dying his hair, then claims the admission was nothing more than passing badinage and that his shocking blond free-follicled foppishness is un-molested by any colouring product, expect to be taken seriously? In summary, he’s a fibber, rectifier and then retracter; allegedly. That muppet mop of blond buffoonery is as honest as his suggestion that £350 million would be diverted directly into the NHS upon Brexit ... isn’t it?

I’m a man in his late 40s, closer to the end than the beginning. I can now happily chat at length about the strength of a cup of tea and the right biscuit to accompany it. I will stand, hands in pockets on Argyle Street and mutter to myself about badly-painted road markings. It takes me all night to do what I used to do all night. I’m old. There’s more salt than pepper in my beard. And quite often a forkful of lunch. I would never dye. Never. I’d rather die than dye.

The transatlantic axis of awful could be completed by the evil-haired Trump. There is every chance that the UK and USA will soon be run by a pair of clowns with comedy hair and tragic policies. Trump the flump has hair that can only be described as comedy gold. There’s a reason why the Republican candidate-elect is never seen in windy cities or anywhere near wind tunnels. His hair is like the bastard child of some sordid union between Arthur Scargill and a value pack of Brillo pads. I have no idea how anyone can take this man seriously when he wants us to believe that the smoke and mirrors of his do are anything other than utterly risible.

I realise as a turban-wearer I may be fairly far down the line when it comes to passing comment on people and their hairstyles. And actually that’s not my point. It’s all about honesty.

Public office should be about serving the public. The truest servants of the public were folk that put the people before them. And while a certain amount of ego is a prerequisite, politicians need to convince us that they are honest people who believe in something. These facile fripperies, flippancies and fopperies are of no substance. This peacocking is naught but distraction with the right hand attracting our attention while the left picks our proverbial pocket.

In this current political age there seem to be so few that actually believe in anything. Tories and Labour share platforms, share funding, share beliefs ... and we are expected to tell the difference? Politics is the art of the possible. It’s about converting ideology into reality. But politics has become a beauty parade. Whether you wear a suit or not; whether your tie is done up; what your mother would say.

None of this matters. Neither does the fact that 1) like Trump you are balding or 2) like BoJo, you may be greying. Maybe they both think their respective electorates so facile, that this matters to them. But it doesn’t.

One of the most significant political thinkers in the modern age was a skinny Indian man with no hair who wore a loin cloth and cheap sandals. That man delivered the independence of what is now the world’s biggest democracy. I’d rather die for my beliefs than dye to garner belief. Besides, hair today, gone tomorrow.