I could go nuts for huts but Scotland lacks shacks

As does living with a compost toilet, outdoor shower and no leccy. My first ignorant thought is there’s no need for any of that. It’s the remoteness and quiet that matter, not whether you can put on a light at the touch of a switch.

On the other head, I’m guessing that being “off-grid”, unhitched from central control and bills, may be psychologically liberating. One is off the leash, as it were, more truly independent.

Bothies are cousins to huts, and more distantly, sheds. I’m your man for the last-named. Looking at properties, I examine the shed more than the hoose. I’m looking for a big shed with a wee hoose attached.

I’d also be your man for a holiday hut, a simple wooden structure in the back of beyond where a chap could let it all, or the bits above the waist, hang out. But the simple hut is a luxury in Scotland.

A few years ago, a campaign for more huts sprang up, but it appears to have fizzled out, partially hampered, one suspects, by the Scottish Government’s timid approach to land reform.

Hutterites point to Norway, our near neighbour that seems a million miles away. It has 400,000 huts or summer houses, compared to our 600-odd. There’s a reason for this. It’s because they’re not a bunch of saps.

Semi-powerless Scotland is a country where nothing ever gets done. One wonders if we might become better, more independent and confident people if we had more huts. Perhaps, if we had to shower outdoors, we could become like other men.

Pooping in a compost toilet, we might lose our pretensions. New ideas could flow forth on a tide of effluent. But it looks like we shall never know.

Flat out

HERE’S something I’m glad about. Reader’s voice: “You, glad? Have you forgotten to take your medication?” How dare you, sir. Sorry, madam.

Fair to say, right enough, that I’m glad about dodging a bullet rather than being generally, you know, “happy”. Is that the word? I’ll look it up later.

And when I refer to dodging a bullet, I must record that I’ve been peppered with same in the past. Reader: “Do you have a point?” Not at the time of writing, no, but I will tell you this: I’m glad I no longer live in a flat.

Oh, how I suffered in these. Suffered from other people’s racket, that is. I had the lot: loud music, including through the night; stomping feet on wooden floors overhead; a slamming front tenement door; an ex-prisoner who played Please Release Me endlessly; a man who shouted “Yip!” at five-minute intervals.

In the last flat I lived in, I used to be woken in the middle of the night by the tubby lass upstairs stomping across the floor. “Fine,” I’d think, “she’s just got up for a slash.”

But it went on and on for up to an hour. Must have been jogging or something.

Now, a Canadian study has scientifically proven that neighbours’ noise is more annoying than any other kind, and could even cause heart disease. Yikes!

Sometimes, I dream of having a flat again in a bohemian part of town with a decent chippie nearby. But when I Googled, “Is it possible to have a quiet flat?”, the answer overwhelmingly was no.

Those of you suffering have my sympathy.

My only advice is to do the Lottery then spend the winnings on a hoose in the country where a fish and chip van visits every week. That’s what I have now. And I’m glad for it.

Loft off-limits

AN important study for EDF energy suppliers reveals that Britons are scared to go up into their lofts because of spiders.

It’s not so much spiders up there that scare me as mice. And not so much their ferocity as their poop. I’m poopophobic and retch at the least sign of it. And mice poop relentlessly.

I have to boot mice out of the house nearly every day. Only this morning, I found one caught in a trap but still alive. I can’t hit wee things oan the heid so took it outside to release it, and it bolted back into the house through a solid concrete wall. No hole anywhere. Uncanny.

A few weeks ago, I got up for a wizz in the middle of the night and found one sitting on the bathroom floor with a look on its face that said: “I wish you’d get a lock put on this door, Rab.”

As for the loft, I’ve caught them up there in the past but am scared to put my heid up through the hatch in case I come face to face with poop. Mind you, I’d rather have mice upstairs than folk. At least mice don’t shout “Yip!” every five minutes.

Bonkers monikers

News from Nutterland. North Korea has ordered parents to call their children “Bomb”, “Gun”, “Satellite” or other patriotic names. Furthermore, folk with soft monikers like A Ri (loved one) and Su Mi (super beauty) have to change them. Every day, Kim, Putin and Khamenei become more like baddie caricatures from Austin Powers films.

Man down

Men face extinction, according to Japanese scientists. Apparently, a genetic marker denoting maleness has been shrinking in mammals, including humans, for millions of years. This development is to be welcomed. Women, while deplorable, are generally better than men. That said, with men gone, who’ll take the bins out?

Big smoke

Smoke on the Water was once just a popular Deep Purple song, but it’s now the latest foodie fad. Smoked water is said to deepen flavour in vegan or vegetarian dishes, yoghurt and cocktails such as Bloody Mary or even a hot toddy. Alternatively, just add Islay whisky to everything.

Just a scratch

Hats off to Kyle Hutchinson in Australia who got mauled by an 8-ft crocodile but, after receiving treatment for several deep gashes, finished off his day in the pub as planned. He nearly lost a leg but, then again, he sounds no stranger to being legless. Kyle was bit in the Kimberley region. Sounds painful.

Tattoo much

Tattoo parlours and beauty parlours have replaced banks and chain stores on the high street, according to BBC analysis. The schtick is that the high street is now a place to have things done to you rather than to buy stuff. It’s the new Saturday: a tribal tat, a lash lift and a chemical peel.