Kirsty Bosley: Measles-fest, superhumans and why prohibition is doomed to fail

One: I became the world's greatest girlfriend and two: I actually rode a bike for the first time in my adult life. I whizzed around those flat streets like a rather unsteady Chris Froome, hampered only very slightly by bum-bruises. Actually, I was probably more like Lance Armstrong, what with the passive spliff fumes. . .

There's no rest for the very wicked, as this weekend I make my annual pilgrimage to Catton Park for Bloodstock Festival.

Public Health England has warned that music festivals have become a hotbed of measles this summer, with a 'significant number' of cases being linked to the events. You know what else outbreaks of measles are related to? Not inoculating yourself against miserable illnesses like measles. If you're suitably pumped full of vaccine, you should be able to run about licking strangers and eating crisps off the floor and walk away without so much as a sniffle. Trust me – I'm so adequately vaccinated, I'm practically super-human.

And talking about super-humans, part-man, part-dolphin Michael Phelps nabbed his twenty-somethingth Olympic gold medal this week in Rio.

The 31-year-old American swam home to another victory, making him the most decorated Olympian of all time. Though I felt more decorated when I sewed my red braid on my cozzie for managing a whole width on my own, because his swimming pants are just plain and boring.

Surely Michael can't be as excited when he gets a medal now as he was when he took part in his first back in 2000 at the tender age of 15? He probably uses his medals to wedge open doors in his house. Or to pick up off the bottom of the pool when he's wearing his pyjamas to get his blue braid.

This week marked the 20th anniversary of the time Oasis played at Knebworth to 250,000 deluded people who thought the band were good.

That should have been an early indicator to the fact that we as a nation are too daft to have been allowed our own referendum. When I said this out loud in the office, our artist 'Super' Simon Hill – our in-house Oasis megafan – threw me the dirtiest look I've ever been given. And I'm sure there's a witty Oasis lyric line I could insert here to further wind him up, but every time I try to think of one, I fall asleep through unbearable boredom. Sorry, Si.

I was sad to hear this week that a 14-month-old had been attacked by a dog in her local park.

Vicky Hawkes and Jason Osman from Weston-super-Mare took their daughter Abbygale out for a picnic when a dog jumped out of the bushes and clamped its jaws around her hand. It's assumed the dog was trying to snaffle the sausage roll that the toddler was holding.

The poor little bab has been left with puncture wounds and torn cartilage.

Now, if the attacking dog was a bull terrier, people would probably roll their eyes and put it down to another issue with a problematic breed. But the dog in this case was a greyhound, which I believe offers proof that breed specific legislation is absolute nonsense. Dogs are dangerous because of their circumstances, not because of their breed.

The dangerous dogs act was brought in in 1991, and it prohibited the possession of dogs that were traditionally used for fighting. This means that all the time in the UK, innocent pups are destroyed because they look like a dog that was historically abused by awful humans, such as the pit bull terrier. Rubbish.

In other quite sad news, the Duke of Westminster died suddenly this week aged just 64.

The Duke – the UK's third richest man – was worth an estimated £9 billion, which he's left solely to his 25-year-old son Hugh Grosvenor. It's a bit of a stark reminder that neither wealth nor title can guarantee a long life. So carpe diem, one and all.

Oh, and Hugh – if you need a new fancy-woman, just give me a call. I am a really good girlfriend. Just ask my fiancé.

Talking of my fiancé, we really did have an interesting time in Amsterdam.

The Dutch are quite laid back when it comes to things that we're stricter on – drugs and prostitution are the main two. In the Red Light District sits an accountant's office to help the women with their books, to make sure they're paying their tax properly. The tax-paying coffee shops are teeming with people, buying substances as easily as they would cigarettes or alcohol here in the UK.

So does this mean that Holland is doing things wrong, and we've got it right? Because we are more strict on this?

No, it doesn't. Because this week, research showed that UK-based drug dealers earn more money online than any of their European rivals. In January, British dealers made £1.7 million in web sales, taking a 16 per cent share of the global online drugs market. God knows of the origin or quality of the stuff they're slinging.

It seems a bit daft to me. Like the dogs thing, it's just further proof that prohibition doesn't work. If people want to buy cannabis, they'll do it if people are willing to sell it to them. Why aren't we spending more time on making sure that this is a safe process, rather than letting the management of this fall into the hands of criminals? I think Amsterdam's got it right.

If we did the same, we could even make money from the sale of cannabis – taxes to be spent on helping those who have drug and alcohol abuse issues. God knows we need it – this week the news broke that around one baby a month is born at Walsall Manor Hospital with an alcohol or drug addiction. So whatever we have going on now clearly just isn't working.