YOU know me as a man without vices, a paragon of virtue, an example to others, a man who pays his rates by direct debit. You see a fellow you would have marry your daughters, were he younger, with a smaller beak, and not so flaky somehow.

Too left-field, too troubled, a man marked out by the gods to be tested, never at peace.

Your assessment is correct in most respects, though I must address the matter of vices. Regrettably, I’ve two: alcohol and Star Bars. As regards the latter, though harder to find now, they still taste brilliant and rekindle memories of watching The Wind in the Willows on autumnal afternoons. A weekly treat, paid for by reusing teabags.

Back then, I never drank alcohol from one month to the next. Never occurred to me. Never had the money. Many years later, the stresses of journalism and other people saw me embrace liquid salvation, the first couple revealing the real me: happier, more insouciant. Subsequent scoops saw me phoning The Samaritans, who answered: “Hello, Rab. How can we help you tonight?”

I expect that, today, a computerised voice tells you they’re experiencing high volumes of calls, and that you should go online. At the time of writing, I’ve been off the sauce 10 days. I don’t have physical problems with it, apart from the headaches but, emotionally, the lack of a wee boost to ever flagging spirits is discombobulating and, even worse, puts me in a roaring rage: at the world, the Earthlings, the gods.

I’m off the drink for noo as I could no longer bear the distress of doctors.

“You’re drinking nearly six times the Government’s guidelines.”

“I micturate on the Government’s guidelines.”

“Mic-?”

“It means to urinate.”

“I see.”

However, I haven’t gathered you here today to discuss alcohol, nor yet Star Bars, their history and cultural significance. My purpose is to lecture you on a vice I can never get my head around: gambling.

READ MORE:

https://www.heraldscotland.com/politics/23445004.honest-john-smith-may-stopped-basketcase-britain-going-doolally/

Apart from recent desperate attempts at the Lottery – six different numbers for six different weeks; not one came up; what are the odds? – I never gamble. Everyone I meet eventually mentions my bad luck. It’s a thing. Everywhere I’ve lived: bad luck. Everything I’ve undertaken: bad luck. It drives away partners. They recognise it as real and are appalled by it.

“You’ve not had much luck.” If I’d a penny for every time someone said that I’d have £3.22. And I wouldn’t put it on a horse. That’s my first problem with gambling: horse-racing. Dislike everything about it, from the jockeys’ stupid hats to the “riding” itself. The arrogance of it.

As for bookies’ emporiums: tawdry, unhappy places. They symbolise the absurdity of hope. And I can’t do the maths. There’s more to gambling than bookies, of course. I’ve seen chaps in pubs addicted to slot machines. Never understood that. The sad lights. The rigged outcome.

Then there are casinos: never been in one. But one reads of footer players and telly stars losing fortunes there. It’s a sad, serious business for sufferers and their families. I’d glad it’s a vice I’ve never had, though I could imagine someone so afflicted saying: “I’ve never understood the attraction of Star Bars.”

 

More hikikomori

HEARD of the hikikomori? Naw? It’s social recluses in yonder Japan who hardly ever leave their hooses. A Japanese government survey found 1.5 million of these poor souls. Once, they were the young. Now, they span all age groups.

Some blame the pandemic. Others say these folk stayed home after fleeing the social, but weird, world of work. Home is safe. No bosses, woke wardens, potential mates (road to ruin), chancers, nutters, wide-boys.

One feels for these home-loving saps, but cannot think this healthy. One must breathe fresh air. After time indoors, it’s almost as good as booze, though it doesn’t make you more handsome. Actually, it probably does: good for the skin, ken?

In the hoose, your heid goes roond in circles. These folk play computer games and surf yonder internet, where folk whose heids are also going roond in circles provide in-depth reportage of the experience.

The current writer – aye, him – often paints himself (and is painted) as a recluse, but he isn’t really. He, er, goes to the gym and sauna twice a week, and to the fish and chip van on Saturdays.

He yarns away with the gals in the village shop and with the chaps at the garage when his car’s in for repair again. He walks in the forest or on the shore. Exchanges halloos and news with neighbours.

Back in the city on a visit, he’s oot every day with old mates. When he lived there, he attended classes or training every week. He had tea or lager with neighbours.

But he’s a quiet guy. Dislikes social functions but, oddly enough, has more friends than anyone else (possibly because they want to mother and father the wee lost soul). Talks to himself. Talks about himself in the third person. Apart from that, he’s fine. Leave him alone.

 

It’s rubbish being Scottish

To the Culloden “attraction”, noting in the accompanying exhibition racist cartoons in the London press of Scots after the battle: flea-bitten, starving, living in huts etc. On a guided tour of the battlefield, American and English tourists laugh about “a walkover”. In London cartoons today, the stereotypes continue, with kilts, bagpipes and haggis. It really is rubbish being Scottish.

 

Captain mangled

Is nothing sacred? In Thetford, Norfolk, where Dad’s Army was filmed, a statue of Captain Mainwaring has been vandalised for a third time. This time, they mangled his spectacles. I never liked Corporal Jones’s catchphrase “They don’t like it up ’em” – too rude and brutal – but one can understand why some enraged locals want to fix bayonets.

Treeless houses

More tree madness. In Bournville, Englandshire, a development company wants to cut down 70 mature specimens to make way for an “eco village”. Nearby residents say: “The area is already a perfect eco environment.” Squirrels, hawks and butterflies will have to make way for “green” humans. Mental.

 

Hell is a garden

The debate between lawn fetishists and rewilders has turned nasty on Twitter. Sane voices complain about the “aggressive” tone. But that’s modern horticulture, a place of rancour and racket where the first tool needed is a set of ear defenders.

 

Deadly yoga

SAS operatives are being taught yoga and meditation – to make them more effective killers. The relaxing routines and breathing exercises help troops cope with stress and improve their sniping aim. We’re sure the corpse, hero and warrior poses will come in handy. Not so sure about the half frog, downward dog and feathered peacock.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.