I DON’T take selfies myself. Never taken one. As you can see, I don’t photograph well and am adamant that the camera lies.

Perhaps that is a sort of narcissism in itself. Or a reverse-narcissism (I look at my reflection in a pool and vomit into it). I cannot tell. I just know, or suspect, that selfie culture seems to be all me, me, me. Or at least you, you, you, some of you at least, the younger ones I guess.

Perhaps they’re just full of life and, since life is something I try to avoid, it’s hardly surprising that I’m not tempted to hold a phone up to my coupon and post the result online for universal admiration and acclaim (or, more likely, abuse and disdain).

In this, I have God and the Queen on my side, or at least one of their representatives in Scotland. The Very Rev Dr John Chalmers, one of the Queen’s chaplains of the Ecclesiastical Household in Scotland (the what now?), slammed – as we journos like to say when someone makes a mild remark – the selfie culture, describing it as “narcissism gone wild”.

Writing in the luridly titled Life And Work magazine, Dr Chalmers was moved to froth eloquently after visiting old buildings in Rome (nice to have a hobby) and seeing young folk rushing from one to another to take selfies in front of them.

I’m guessing that’s a function of selfies: to show the places where you’ve been. I still don’t get the point. Places, generally speaking, are overrated, and in my experience you’re better off avoiding them. I don’t leave the house often anyway, and cannot think that anyone would be interested in seeing a picture of me standing outside the Co-op or the chippie.

There I go, on about myself again. I guess another aspect of selfies is to be seen with others, that is to say celebrities or people in yon news. During the recent election, Boris Johnson, after initial unfamiliarity with the function on the phone, started posing for selfies though, to be fair, they were really for the benefit of the working-class people mobbing the upper-class Prime Minister in support.

Meanwhile, Boris’s erstwhile opponent, Jeremy Corbyn, was castigated by one of his defeated Labour MPs as a “preening narcissist”, after she spotted him posing with young persons for a selfie at Westminster. Poor sod. You can hardly refuse people a selfie if the many-headed ask for them. Look at that Nicol Sturgeon, leader of the patriotic minority in Scotland: she can barely step oot the door without having a selfie took.

Let’s hope she doesn’t succumb to the growing problem of “selfie wrist”, a kind of carpal tunnel syndrome. A top plastic surgeon told an astonished world this week: “Extending the forearm and flexing your wrist to take a selfie is putting it in the most unfavourable position ergonomically.” Ergo, don’t do it.

According to a survey this week, 85% of Britons aged 16 to 29 post selfies, at an average rate of 468 a year. Surely not? By my watch, that’s more than one a day. And more males are doing it than females. Disgraceful.

I leave the penultimate words (the last ones are for me, me, me) to Dr Chalmers, who roared: “Life isn’t all about me, me, me! Modesty beats pride hands down, humility is healthier than arrogance, and self-effacement beats self-importance every time.”

I couldn’t agree more. Indeed, since it publishes such views, I’d be tempted to read Life A Work magazine more often, if I didn’t detest cordially both of the concepts in the title.

You're killing me

A REALLY nice-sounding woman was on BBC Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs this week. Heidi Thomas is the writer of television’s Call The Midwife, which I’ve never seen as I cannot abide anything to do with childbirth and find babies utterly repulsive.

But it was a joy to listen to Ms Thomas, not least because she took the opportunity to deplore modern drama’s obsession with the gruesome murder of women and children. I’ve been banging on about this for a couple of years now, not just in drama but in crime fiction.

It started with Scandi noir, and it was bewildering to find ardent feminists clutching tomes exulting in such horror. Indeed, women write much of it.

How I long for a return to more decent crimes. I’d even prefer a bunch of chinless wonders lolling around the library of a stately home while the detective frames the butler for some preferably non-violent crime, such as stealing a macaroon.

I don’t mind that most of the detectives are women now, either, though I’d still prefer them to be lonely middle-aged male losers drinking themselves into an early grave. Something we can all identify with.

Marvellous museums

I DON’T want to sound controversial but I love museums and art galleries.

There’s something special about looking at a painting, a kind of spiritual dithering across the ether between you. I’m havering noo, and it’s about to get worse as I praise museums.

They’ve been havens to me over the years. Once, in my early twenties, when I had to pretend to go to work every day as my parents had vowed to throw me out if I packed in another job after a couple of hours, I remember sitting in a large city museum eating corned beef sandwiches from my lunchbox beside the backside of a stuffed elephant.

I don’t know why that image has stayed with me. Anyway, the museum was a life-saver during that cold winter. Now, research by University College London says visiting art galleries and museums reduces your risk of dying early.

It takes you out of yourself, and there’s always something to pique your interest, perhaps the stuffed posterior of an unfortunate pachyderm, perhaps various historical artefacts, artworks and exhibitions. And, on top of that, you’ll also get a wee heat if your family is persecuting you at home. Marvellous.