IT must be satisfying to be useful. I can’t imagine the feeling. I blame my higher – or, more accurately, middling – education, which deprived me of common sense, wasted four years when I could have been earning money and saving up for a wife, and led me to misapply book-based theories to the real world.

A social sciences degree left me unemployable. Rightly so. I see now that such subjects – philosophy, sociology, political “science” – are best read at home as hobbies, with universities reserved for science and engineering.

I’m being contentious now as, after all these years, I’ve finally got round to reading my job description: (1) Be factually correct; (2) Entertain the reader(s); (c) Be contentious. I was vaguely aware of the last-named and, as for the other two, might have a go at them later.

But I’m not comfortable being contentious. I tried it with bicyclists, easily the most demented demographic out there, resulting in attempts to cancel me by the woke’s online secret police. And I tried it with bald people, who at least respected my view that they shouldn’t be able to vote or own property. They’re the salt of the earth, and I won’t hear a word against them.

Contention isn’t worth the hassle, and has recently led me to re-evaluate my career choice. Back in the day, when the world was my oxter, I’d no alternative but to go into journalism because I was no good at anything else (reader’s voice: “And you’re no good at …”; yes, yes, shut up; I’ve got the mic here).

Do I regret it? Yes, of course. But then: “Je regrette tout.” I regret everything. Tout-tout. If I could live my life over, I’d do none of it again.

And certainly, to return reluctantly to my original point, I’d give higher education a miss and get a trade. This week, a chorus of industrialists, politicians and even charity chiefs has been urging young persons to do the same.

Not only will they be useful to society, but they’ll earn decent money, as is only right and proper. Above all, think of the satisfaction gained from building and repairing things for grateful clients.

When, too late, I looked around for a useful trade, I had to factor in the consideration that I am not practical. I checked out electricianism and plumbing, but found them right complicated. My inner denigrator envisaged whole cities plunged into darkness or flooded. My only hope was that it would be blamed on global warming.

I thought about painting and decorating, but had to confess I’m rubbish at these too. Besides, I’d worry about the repetitive nature of the work. During my few years working in the real world – export clerk, postie, estate worker, garden labourer, railway porter – I found it interesting for the first couple of hours but, after a fortnight or so, inevitably walked out thinking: ‘Sod this, I’m going home to write a poem about elves.’

And so here I am today. There was a young elf-boy called Bob/Who … Never mind. I’m getting a message in my ear-piece: “Be contentious.” All right, try this: if you’ve just got great Higher results, ignore folk moaning about everyone getting these and blaming Nicola Sturgeon. It was the First Minister’s fault when results were rubbish. Now it’s the First Minister’s fault when they’re good. I wish she’d been around when I got no marks for chemistry. Could have blamed her for it.

But don’t waste your Highers going to university, younglings. Get a trade. Failing that, write a book of poems about elves. I guarantee you at least one sale.

Foot for thought

IN a recent bombshell column, I wrote movingly and authoritatively of how we often ruined walks in pleasant places by keeping our minds full of all the usual worries.

I guess one way of avoiding this is to be present in the moment, but that is hard work and requires much concentration. One method I tried this week was to focus on the sound of my footsteps as I blundered along the forest path. I hadn’t read about this anywhere. It just came to me in, like, my own mind, ken?

Not quite sure how it worked but, somehow, it connected me to all my previous walks and, next thing, I was taken back to an epic journey on foot I made from the Scottish Borders to the Yorkshire Dales. True, that brought me back to the past from the present but, in my mind, I just heard my footsteps in a different place in a different time.

They were connected to my footsteps today. Probably not explaining this well, but somehow this sort of moving meditation took my mind off the usual useless anxieties. If you can get away from the racket of modern urban and rural life, you might also focus on the sound of birds, sea or the wind in the trees.

I feel on the verge of a spiritual breakthrough here. Please don’t form a Cult of Rab, though. I’d only take your money and spend it on drink.

Bitten by the bugs

THERE’S too much biting going on. It’s amazing how much we humans get bitten. In the Highlands and Islands, there’s the dreaded midge. Other northern countries, like Sweden and Canada, are beset by mosquitoes.

In other places you might get bitten by snakes, weird flies or even crocodiles. This week, one poor young chap on holiday in Ibiza faced having two fingers removed after being bitten by a recluse spider. It’s disgraceful. The recent fad for wild swimming in the waters around Britland has seen a rise in people being stung by jellyfish. Indeed, if you add stings to bites, you’d have to include bees and wasps in the roster of horror.

I removed one putative wasps’ bike from my garden shed recently, but left another one in an unused bird box alone. The stripey beasts are supposed to keep down garden pests. But, every time I walk past their vespiary, I give a little shiver. Who knows when they might decided to “get Beardie”?

This is our lot on Earth: to be variously baked, frozen, stung, burnt and bitten. Whole thing is an absolute scandal.

Berry good

ADMIRABLY, I never watched one second of the Tokyo Olympics. I deplore any activity that involves shorts-wearing, with the exception of football, and even here I’d prefer if the players wore a decent pair of flannels.

I also disapprove of competition, but one contest gripped me recently, and that was just reading about it afterwards. I’ve no idea of the habiliments involved in a gooseberry growing competition, but suspect there’s little of which to be ashamed, as the activity requires neither running nor puffing, situations best avoided.

In North Yorkshire, the Egton Bridge Gooseberry Show went to extra-time after the judges couldn’t tell two entries apart. With tension among spectators reportedly “palpable”, the judges called for tiny, finely tuned goldsmith’s scales, which found in favour of one berry by 0.02g. It was more exciting than penalties at the football.

Winner Bryan Nellist, 85, resisted the temptation to celebrate by sliding along the grass on his knees. But, despite such admirable restraint, he was delighted. “It’s unbelievable, really,” he told the press. Let’s hope his example inspires young people to stick in at the gooseberry-growing.

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