Robert McNeil: I’m such a rogue of parcels as I await my latest delivery

But that’s in the alleged real world. I’m a different creature online. All right, I’m not on Twitter, Facebook, Dangerous Liaisons or anything like that. But I shop till I drop (from couch to floor).

It’s embarrassing. I worry what the poor postie and other couriers think. It’s the ultimate “conspicuous consumption”, identified by the revolutionary Situationists of the 1960s and 70s as the defining trait of modern, alienated capitalism.

But the delivery folk stop at all the other houses too, and nobody gets letters nowadays, so it can’t just be me. Letters are dreadful anyway: they’re only ever from the bank, the NHS about some ghastly test or other, and summonses to attend court for sentencing.

There are few shops where I live, and no gentleman’s outfitter for 50 miles. Even then, we’re talking deerstalker hats and argyll-pattern socks. Anyway, a recent visit to Markies hundreds of miles away was disappointing. They’ve hardly anything. They’re just shop windows for internet shopping. They’ve become like Argos, except you wait days for your stuff.

I buy everything online, unhesitatingly: clothes, books, videos, gramophone records, perfume. Clothes are hit or miss. Trousers and shirt are usually fine, as I always order the same ones. However, I’m forever wasting money on T-shirts that don’t hide my moobs or that make my arms look pencil-skinny (which they are).

The trick with the former, by the way, is to buy one with a logo or slogan across the chest, which can lead to my upper torso sporting vulgar inanities like “Whatever”, “Fancy a snuggle?”, and “Rub my cue tip” (apparently aimed at players of pool, a rough sport that I deplore).

A man in my position can never be seen sending anything back: so undignified. That’s not just T-shirts but cables for devices that never, ever fit.

You’ll want to know what I purchased on Prime Day (a big sale, if you’re oot the loop here). These: an Echo Dot (smart speaker with Alexa), colour-changing light bulb (works off the Dot), smart plug (ditto), and a Fire TV Stick.

Of course, none will work. I can’t even get mainstream TV channels (no aerial: in this technologically advanced era, we still need a bit of bent wire on the roof); the word “smart” usually means I can’t figure it out; and Alexa will never understand educated Leith. I just bought it for something to talk to, other than my Lord of the Rings figurines.

Even relatively old-fashioned households gadgets never work for me, so I wasn’t tempted by the lift-away upright vacuum cleaner, with “crevice cleaner”. Eh? I maintain my crevices with a stiff hand brush, thank you very much.

As for the bulb, I love coloured light. Reminds me of my home planet.

So, at the time of writing, we wait excitedly for delivery. It’s Christmas every day: a never-ending stream of parcels. How far Amazon has come. I remember when we customers were so few they sent us all a free mug for our loyalty.

I bet they don’t even know my name now. As for the over-worked couriers, they always say a cheery hello. But sometimes I see them crying in the van.

Bespoke joke

DECENT people were left reeling this week on learning that an outfitter on Savile Row is offering bespoke … wait for it … tracksuits. Un. Believable. How can tracksuits be bespoke? What are they measuring? Bagginess? The distance between knee and half-way up the anus, which is where the disgusting garments often hang?

Tracksuits were originally designed for athletes but are generally now a sure sign of sloth and moral degradation. An aesthetically distressing light grey variant is famously worn by neds, the uniquely Scottish phenomenon describing slack-jawed young persons of low education and negligible ethical probity.

According to anthropological studies, neds stand around on street corners or at municipal dumps, snorting Buckfast fortified wine and holding farting contests, which is the nearest they get to sport.

At the other end of the social scale – at least normally – “Savile Row” caters to people with more money than sense, fools and fops buying into a risible concept of quality and tradition. Most of Savile Row’s suit jackets now have two buttons instead of three, which is sick-making.

Indeed, much clothing appending the rubric “Savile Row” to its scam advertising is just cheap tat mass-produced at little cost in backward countries, if that is the correct expression. Savile Row is not a name you can trust.

I’m struggling to think of an equivalent in socialist Scotland, where the Co-op is regarded as a bit snooty, and where wearing a tweed jacket can get you shot, or would if guns weren’t banned. But I can tell you from experience that getting poked in the eye by a passer-by can be just as painful.

Time to sanction Nordic nutters

Asked to name the world’s most evil place, decent ratepayers would undoubtedly plump for Faroe. The Nordic archipelago is notorious for its wicked citizens using screwdrivers to massacre dolphins. This year, after butchering 1,400 last time, they’ve promised to reduce the carnage. They should still face sanctions until adhering to the values of western civilisation.

Good goring

Fair-minded citizens enjoy stories of bulls goring bullfighters. So, it’s been a good week, with the heroic animals sticking it to the bovine clowns of Pamplona, in controversial Third World country, Spain. Sadly, the bulls were later killed for entertainment in a nutter-filled arena. Time to impose sanctions against another country failing the civilisation test.

Plucking follicles

Though yet to see one ourselves, the mullet hairstyle is supposedly making a spectacular comeback. We applaud these brave souls sporting it. However, we fear that the tittering of the shaven-skulled dictators, who’ve ruled our heads for decades now, will cow anyone essaying abundant follicles on a male cranium. That’s the bald truth.

Smug much?

Quite improbably, Edinburgh has been voted world’s best city in Time Out’s annual index, on account of its alleged beauty. But, hang on, who decided this? Oh, I see, it was the people of Edinburgh. So: world’s smuggest city. Glasgow came a modest fourth, with its citizens believing themselves world’s friendliest, which is objectively undeniable.

Trews blues

Latest shortage to hit the nation is … kilts. Post-Covid, folk are getting married like there’s no tomorrow – damned Russians – with manufacturers struggling to meet demand. One outfitter is renting out 400 fat-arsed outfits a week. Irresponsible speculation suggests resorting to trews, the world’s most hideous habiliments which, at the time of writing, remain absurdly legal.

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