A COUPLE of years ago, in an explosive column, you will recall clearly that I recanted previously expressed praise for Perth on account of its politeness.

My original position of approbation had been fomented by an incident in which, rather than cross the road, I decided to breenge through a bunch of neds gathered obstructively on a street corner.

Fearing the worst, I tried to recall scenes from the 1970s television series Kung Fu but, as it happened, the neds not only parted for me but said, “Sorry, sir”, “We do apologise”, and so forth.

I’ve spruced up the language a little, but you get my gist.

I was most impressed. In Perth, even the yobbos were polite. However, on a trip there last year, I was walking down the high street in a bit of a dwam when one of two neds passing the other way pronounced: “Dickhead!”

To be fair, I couldn’t be sure this had been addressed to me. Nevertheless, I turned round to batter them. Unfortunately, weighing up the pros and cons, it had taken me 15 minutes to arrive at such resolve, by which time they were well out of sight up the road.

However, the incident unmanned me. I discussed it at length with friends, clergymen, philosophers and so forth, and they said it was just the way of the world, or at least Scotland, now.

Even in Perth, on my most recent visit, I saw some right sights: people intoxicated outwith the privacy of their own homes. And, oh, the neds. You just couldn’t imagine these weedy, feral-faced, pin-headed creatures anywhere else than Scotland, the world capital of neddery.

I’m not claiming there were huge numbers in Perth, and it’s fair to say most sightings were in the vicinity of the criminal court. Also, friends told me it was the same in every Scottish town and city now.

But my faith in Perth was somewhat restored on that most recent visit. It was the place I didn’t name a couple of weeks ago when I recounted the emotionally harrowing incident in which a bunch of youths burst into my holiday flat accusing me of stealing one of their number’s wallet.

It had been a horrible misunderstanding. You’ll recall someone in a pub said I’d dropped my wallet and, absently, I’d picked it up. But, despite looking identical, it turned out it wasn’t mine. Once matters were explained, the feisty fellows were fine, and we shook hands amicably.

On another occasion, I was coming out of Markies with a big bag of pants when two lads were coming the other way. They both made way graciously, and one said to the other: “Willie, you have no sense of spatial awareness.”

All at once, my faith in humanity, or at least the young people of Perth, was restored. Next time I go, I’ll probably be hit over the heid with a bottle of Buckie. But for now I’m happy to pronounce Perth: The Polite Place.

Classics case

LATIN was the daftest language. All in all, I spent four years studying it and still can’t translate a word. Recently, opening my Lidl Classical Dictionary, I learned that pergula meant “balcony, school, brothel”.

“I’m just off to the pergula, dear.” “You’re going to a brothel?” “No, to the school, where I work as a teacher.” “Oh, that’s all right then.” Load of nonsense.

Get a death

LIKE most decent ratepayers, I spend most of my life thinking about death, the blessed relief from this vale of nonsense.

I read often about near-death experiences, and reject the argument that the euphoria or heaven that people experience on escaping life on Earth is just a last rush of dopamine through the brain. For that is to assume that time is linear and, as Jimmy Einstein or somebody proved, it is bendy. Those few seconds of heavenly euphoria last forever.

So I like to think. But I bet the afterlife will be rubbish like everything else. A fate worse than life. There’ll be big queues and it’ll be hammering doon. There’ll be a shortage of clouds to sit on and, if you want a harp, you’ll need to look on eBay.

The problem with death is we’re not allowed to try before we buy. And it’s an expensive business nowadays. Maybe that’s what prompted Victor Amela, 63, of yonder Spainshire, to get buried alive at his own “funeral” – to see what death is like. A priest conducted a service. There were tearful eulogies and everything.

Turns out Victor rather enjoyed death. Well, not that he died exactly. But he got to lie there at peace, in the dark, listening to shovelfuls of soil landing on his coffin. He said it had “helped me to stop thinking about the possibility of dying”, which had started after a Ouija board prophecy that he’d die at 65.

At primary school, a girl read my palm and said I’d die at an age I’ve since surpassed. Six years later, here I am, still struggling on, happily complaining about everything.

Soap operas get you down

Watching soaps makes you unhappy, according to an important study by the University of Sussex and Brighton in association with the Radio Times. Who can doubt this? On the few occasions I’ve accidentally alighted on one, it’s always folk greetin’ or being blown up. Mind you, they’re supposed to reflect real life, and that pretty much meets the spec.

Off yir bike

Cycling is in decline. The transport fad peaked during Covid, when folk went mental. Experts say particles from bicycle saddles enter the bottom and progress up to the brain, impairing the ability among some sufferers to consider the consequences for others. Hence breenging through red lights, mowing down dogs, etc. Commentators say less cycling could make society more polite and considerate.

Fat chance

Sumo wrestling is another dubious activity in decline. So the Japan Sumo Association says boys who fancy their tattie in the dohyo no longer need be at least 5ft 5 in tall or 10.5 stone. They just sit a physical fitness test and, if accepted, eat to excess. Downside? It knocks years off your lifespan. And you have to wrestle in a nappy.

By a whisker

Beardies are growing in Britonia, where 54% of men are now hirsute of phizog, though this also includes the moustachioed, who should always be treated with caution. Though women dislike whiskers, believing them unhygienic, experts say downward pressure on the cranium exerted by beards causes men to be more socially responsible and caring.

Down with ageing

Inch by inch, age creeps up on us, and here’s the proof that it gets you down: Sir Patrick Stewart out of Star Trek has become two inches shorter in the past two years. Sir P, 83, has been filled with panic, wailing fearfully: “When will it stop?” Never fear, old boy. As Spock might have said: “Live long and shorter.”