Robert McNeil: Even the fiercest beasties love a cuddle and a hug

But more innocent fun is the theme on YouTube, and an emerging and significant pattern in particular is the universal love among creatures for being hugged. And stroked. Not just patted on the heid.

And it truly involves them all, the long and the short and the tall, the fierce and the timid, the lion and the lamb. You see it often with the former, and tigers and leopards, though that category of beast usually involves those rescued and loved as cubs. All the same, it’s astonishing how they recognise a carer years later and bound up to cuddle with them.

Cats and dogs also feature largely, of course. The former were in the news once again this week, with a study by Nottingham Trent University demonstrating that you have to let cats “call the shots” when it comes to this petting business. So, you offer your hand and let the moggie decide if it’s up for a cuddle or stroke.

Even then, you must exercise caution. A wee cat that I know comes running up to you saying, according to Google Translate: “Pat me on the heid! Pat me on the heid!” So you pat it on the heid, and it purrs. So you pat it some more. Then it rips its claw angrily across the back of your hand. Wee freak. He’s quite infamous for it too. But, still, when he comes bounding up, no one can resist giving him a pat.

Beyond mutts and moggies, on YouTube you can see ducks, geese, rodents and even a monitor lizard enjoying a good cuddle. This week, I have been mostly watching a chipmunk, though you often have to feed them a peanut. Small price to pay.

So much for the beasties. This week, a survey by cross-party think-tank Demos – this is how serious it’s getting – found that one in four adults in Britland had not been hugged for more than a year. That’s been exacerbated by the pandemic, of course, but the fear is that folk will have forgotten how to show any affection or build relationships, including community connections, in the longer term.

Perhaps, the authorities will have to establish compulsory night classes, in which people are taught – on models – how to cuddle and how to strike up conversations. You may have undergone this latter torture at foreign language classes, using only the words you’ve learned in Norwegian so far. Google Translate: “Hello, the name of me is Robert. Pleased to meet with you. How many windows are in your house?”

Surely that deserves a cuddle? Meanwhile, as things stand, it seems we’re cuddling animals more and humans less. Maybe it’s for the best. I’m not sure it even matters, as long as you cuddle something. I’ve a lifelong teddy bear complex – something to do with having one forcibly removed in childhood – and could cuddle for Scotland.

I might draw the line at monitor lizards, though. You know the beasties: they eat whole goats. But, with enough cuddling, there’s a chance we could persuade them to go vegetarian.

I’m not on a roll

THE loo roll shelves were empty in our local (well, 23 miles away) supermarket again this week. Must have been the usual suspects loo-sing the plot. After putting an old lady in a headlock, I got the last box of tissues. They’re aloe-vera scented so I’ll probably have wasps chasing my butt.

Talking of aloe vera, I’ve recently found that juice from it helps with heartburn, but the store was out of that too (aloe vera juice not heartburn). It was even out of plain crisps. True, I’ve been trying to give these up. I’d only recently rediscovered them, after years of going without for virtuous health reasons: I’d noticed that the crisps aisle is usually full of fatties. And no wonder: Hmm, delicious!

But, recently, I’d thought I might have to give them up again, as I figure the salt must explain why my blood pressure recently has been “through the roof”, as high as it can be without actually dying on the spot. Doc says it’s the alcohol. But it’s definitely the crisps.

So, no loo roll (or even kitchen towel), no aloe vera juice, and no plain crips. This was apocalyptic now. The latest Soviet-style shortages are attributed to key workers in the supply chain being pinged.

Whatever the cause, it’s odd to think that, with the apocalypse looming, folk’s first thought is: ‘I’d better get some loo roll in.’ I don’t remember the Bible saying: “And, lo, a right loud trumpet was heard. And, yea, mountains fell on folk’s heids. And, verily, some folk hadnae got enough loo roll in.”

Thoughtful thoughts

I’VE been thinking. Readers’ chorus: “Uh-oh, here’s trouble.” Indeed, I’ve been thinking too much. I’ve even been thinking about thinking.

Here’s what I thought: there isn’t much point in visiting a beautiful, quiet place if you sit there and the same vexatious thoughts about life, money, relationships, work and purpose continue running through your head in a constant, debilitating commentary.

True, the fresh air, views, colour and birdsong soothe your soul. It’s your brain that’s the problem. Maybe you think things out better bosky-side, but it’s rare to reach any conclusion. Maybe, with no household distractions, you think about problems even more.

Recently, in a beautiful forest, I suddenly realised I’d been walking on auto-pilot and had hardly noticed a thing – even my favourite trees – because I was worrying about the same subjects I worry about in the hoose. I’d even get angry about things, such as Stalinist woke censors online, and find myself walking the woodland path with balled fists.

So, here’s my New Year’s resolution: stop thinking. Perhaps you’d like to join me. At the very least, I hope I’ve given you food for thought.

Cone of contention

WHAT has become of us? We expect everything instanter and, if we don’t get it, we go radge.

How shocking to read this week of an incident in an Oban ice cream parlour where a couple went doolally on learning that there was no Mr Whippy ice cream left and that they’d have to make do with a scoop cone. The owner described the scene: “A woman and man shouting, swearing and punching the counter because the Whippy machine wasn’t on.”

She’s now installing CCTV and thinking of employing bouncers. It’s like something out of Gotham City. But it’s Oban. Mind you, I once got into an altercation in Oban after someone made remarks about my anorak. Two policemen had to separate us. I got off with a warning: “And never wear that anorak in Oban again.” True story. Most of it.

But I wouldn’t go spare about a Mr Whippy. Folk say it’s the heat addling the brains, making us literally hot-headed like Mediterranean people. But the problem is caused by the fact that, these days, we want the world on a stick. Or in a cone.

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