WE need to talk. Well, you Earthlings do. I’m not really bothered. Most days, I never exchange a single word with another soul. That applied pre-Covid too. It’s been nine days since there was anything beyond a “Thanks” or a “Yes, I am over 18” to a supermarket till jockey.

But folk are limbering up for life after Covid and wondering what they’re going to say to each other. Our friends will be older and fatter, but that wouldn’t be a good opening gambit after the best part of a year.

Best sticking to the old, traditional stand-bys: politics, money, sex. According to a poll by digital bank Zopa – que? – Britishers are no longer embarrassed to talk about such subjects. This is deplorable on two out of three grounds. Politics first. Will everyone shut about it? In normal circumstances or on the phone during lockdown, my heart sinks when anyone brings it up.

Most of the time, I just agree with my friends but sometimes, if I’ve had a few vats of sherry, I tell them to shut up. I nearly lost one good friend that way: not by talking about politics but asking them not to talk about politics.

Sex is another deplorable subject to bring up. What is there to talk about? It’s not like the football, where the game could go either way.

Much mythology surrounds this subject. I am a man of the world, and can tell you that men never talk about actual sex, unless it’s in a joke. If someone down the pub does bring it up (“What’s it like?”), the subject will quickly be changed to football, promotion prospects or the underlying rate of inflation.

According to popular legend, women talk to each other about nothing but sex, but I cannot believe that’s true. According to my research, the modern woman talks mainly about football, promotion prospects and the underlying rate of inflation. As for money, since not talking about this is basically a toff rule taken up by the middle classes, I always speak openly and in specific personal sums just to noise such people up. “My 34p in the bank has accrued zero interest. How much money do you have?”

It’s like talking to a toff before you’ve been introduced. The look on their faces! Brilliant. I’ve always taken the view that people should know who I am, even if just from the frisson of whispers upon my entrance.

According to the above research, Generation X and Millennials are happy to talk about money, so good on them. With their openness to free speech and diversity of opinion, they give me hope for the future. I’m surprised that religion didn’t figure in the subjects that folk now talk about without embarrassment.

The key was never to talk about it to anyone religious. But nobody is now, so it doesn’t really matter, though I have witnessed arguments between atheists and agnostics: “How do you know there’s nothing afterwards? I may not believe in God, but I’ve been good and want my reward in the afterlife.”

Another study this week, by the University of Nicosia in yonder Cyprus, found that folk have lost their ability to flirt by chat-up lines, humour and eye contact.

None of that ever works anyway. You’re best being the strong but silent type. All right, the silent type.

After a long uncomfortable silence, squint like Clint and say in a gravelly voice: “Buy me a pint, madam.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You will often come away with a pint, though your chastity will remain intact. Another piece of advice: don’t push your luck by adding: “And a packet of peanuts. Not the dry-roasted.” You can get poked in the eye for that. Or so I heard.

Chocs away

THAT’S Thorntons away now. I weep for our high streets, even though I don’t live anywhere near one.

Nor did I shop every week at Thorntons. But it was reassuring to know it was there.

Back in the days when I had people to buy Christmas presents for (these days, it’s none out, none in), I’d usually pop in at that time of year. Beyond that, I have only about 17 or 18 times in my life bought an entire box of chocolates for myself.

In Thorntons, I always found the middle-aged ladies in pinnies to be jolly, like fat people used to be. They were pleased to advise on truffles or provide updates on the crystallised fondant situation.

Owned latterly by Ferrero, makes of yon Rocher for parvenus, the Thorntons brand will still be available in supermarkets.

But the shopping experience won’t be the same. Just another item in your basket along with the condoms and brisket.

As Hugh Laurie’s busy executive put it in A Bit of Fry & Laurie, “If I want an omelette, I go to an omelette-maker.” Similarly, if I wanted a box of chocolates, I liked to go to Thorntons. Now I can only stand outside the abandoned shop and weep uncontrollably.

Pies do not go on a roll

I’VE lived a sheltered life. Never been to Spain. Never been to an orgy. Never climbed a mountain. Never eaten a fish finger sandwich.

Eh? I assume you’re goggling in surprise, as I did on first hearing about the last-named phenomenon. According to groundbreaking academic research for spreads brand Flora, 24 per cent of respondents admitted to eating this peculiar repast.

How disturbing. Many years ago, no kidding, I saw a man eating a pie on a roll. For months, I couldn’t stop thinking about it: “But he put a pie on a roll!” He was from Aberdeen, so I thought that must explain it.

Then I learned that quite a few people put a pie on a roll. I still couldn’t grasp the concept. A pie is a self-contained repast. It was like putting a roll on a roll.

Now we learn, from the same study, that people are eating “healthy” fruit sandwiches. Fruit. On a sandwich. This has to stop. Who’s the First Minister? Surely he must step in. It’s one thing to be cosmopolitan or progressive, but this depravity with sandwich fillings is an offence against nature.

Hang about

I’M half-way between heaven and earth, folks. Well, not at the time of writing – hobnobbing with youse would bring anyone back down to earth. And I’ll own that my fraction is inaccurate. But the point is I’ve just come in from another blissful session in my hammock. No ifs no buts, it’s the best thing ever.

I first discovered the joy of a hammock at the Fairy Glen, near ma hoose. A path through a copse brings you to a little rocky beach. There, someone has improvised a hammock from a fishing net strung between two trees.

At first, I pooh-poohed this leisure facility. A man in my position cannot be seen in public swinging gently from side to side in mid-air. But, that day, I’d the place to myself, except for one cormorant sunning its wings after a hail storm.

Gingerly, I plonked myself aboard. Oh bliss! To be off the ground! To look up at the sky through the trees! Now I’ve a hammock of my own. In the hammock, my cares float up to heaven. In the hammock, all strife is suspended.

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