Looking back at nostalgia, I recall experiencing the dubious feeling early on in life. Aged 12, I’d walk past my old primary school and almost well up, recalling the happiest days of my life there, compared to my awful secondary school.

Of course, I’d had my share of hassle at primary, and hated returning after the summer holidays. But I’d been respected – shut up, youse – and popular. According to a mate who goes to secondary school reunions, whenever he mentions my name, everyone looks quizzical for a minute before responding in unison: “Who?”

In addition, at primary school, we’d all been lower class. There were quite posh, or at least middle class, people at secondary. People with roofs on their houses. Some tried to teach me to play chess instead o’ fitba’. It made me pine for my old pals who, presented with chess pieces, would have rammed them up their nostrils and staggered around the playground shouting “Yaargh!”

I write in the wake of an important study, commissioned by Schweppes, purporting to show that men are more prone to nostalgia than women, particularly on subjects like music, TV and movies, and public figures.

Krystine Batcho, professor of psychology at Le Moyne College in yonder New York and an expert on nostalgia, said: “Nostalgia can reflect dissatisfaction with the present, and men have often viewed cultural changes less favourably than women.

“Many men also feel uncertainty about what is socially acceptable today, whereas women are more likely to feel that cultural changes have created more opportunities for them to succeed and have greater control over their lives.”

Something in this, I reckon. Though I think nostalgia is more ancient than it implies. The Romans – male writers – frequently scorned contemporary morés and leaders compared to those in a mythical past. And they had nothing to fear from their womenfolk, apart from being poisoned.

I think nowadays most men are worried about how to behave and what we can and can’t say. Maybe it’s all for the good. But it’s all a little … tense.

As for music: young persons, you’ll be amazed at how the music of your teens sticks with you for life. Even when young myself, I assumed I’d move on to jazz and classical which, true, I did. But I still mostly play rock stuff from back in yon day.

There’s plenty of good music around today. Contemporary band The Blur seem to me worthy successors to Yon Beatles. However, a real downturn took place some time ago with the doomf-doomf-doomf of the robotic drum. Ironically, dance killed music, or at least seriously injured it.

Politics was arguably better in the past, when it was less narrow, but there are still decent statesmen out there. Journalism finds itself in a peculiar place. In the past it challenged the ruling tropes. Today it defends the ruling tropes. In the past it challenged the present. In the present it defends the present. It’s disorientating.

On TV and film, there’s a ton of good stuff today. Recently, I’ve been mostly watching The Detectorists and Mortimer and Whitehouse: Gone Fishing. There’s an underlying sadness in both, but melancholy has ever been laughter’s, er, crankshaft.

Sadly, I must now concoct a conclusion to these weighty or obese – sorry, large-boned – thoughts. It takes time for cultural and sociological material to become “classic”. I hear people eulogising football teams of the past, but can remember fans moaning at the time that they were rubbish.

Not that everything today will be revered in the future. Today’s increasingly mental woke tropes, rap music, reality shows and plain, ugly architecture, for example, will be laughed at or looked upon with horror, the same as we do today with witch trials, Mao’s Cultural Revolution and, er, wattle-and-daub huts.

That’s my tuppence worth. Or two-pee as they say nowadays. Conclusions were so much better in the past.

Your suppah’s oot

TWO of the most awful things in life are people calling lunch “luncheon” and dinner “supper”, or “suppah” as they invariably pronounce it. It was bad enough having to learn to call dinner “lunch” and tea “dinner” without these further, even snootier refinements.

Calling the midday meal “dinner” and the evening meal “tea” is not the prerogative solely of lower class parts of the UK like Scotland. It provides a dividing line between north and south in England, with the former more Scottish in that and other respects.

Newcastle and Liverpool are more like Edinburgh and Glasgow than they are London and Saffron Walden or whatever.

A study by the University of Lancaster – nice place; visited it once on the trail of a tale about Bonnie Prince Charlie (long story) – has revealed that Warwickshire scribe William Shakespeare referred to the evening meal as “supper”.

Warwickshire, to my mind, is on the border between northern and southern England, while Stratford-upon-Avon (the bard’s hame toon) sounds distinctly effete. You have to factor in too that Shakespeare was frequently loose in his use of the English language.

“Fair is foul, and foul is fair.” Is it, aye? “Is this a chib I see before me?” Such a lot of nonsense.

Something of the knight about him

Sir Keir Starmer doesn’t like being called Sir Keir Starmer as he fears lower class people find the “Sir” too posh. Presumably, he was named Keir after Hardie of that ilk, Scotch founder of yon Labour Party. Fine. But Starmer? Sounds a bit German. He’s a posh German. More in common with the Royals than the proletariat.

Die not laughing

Laughter can alleviate symptoms of heart disease, according to a new study. We wonder if it works with fake or exaggerated laughter, as practised by politicians and radio comedy audiences. Why not try laughing at this column? Come on, you can do it. No? Nothing coming? Oh well, it’s your funeral.

News in briefs

Comedian Ricky Gervais dislikes wearing underwear. He wears the controversial garments on stage to avoid “chafing”. But, at home, he wears shorts or pyjama bottoms without pants. We all know standards are slipping in Britain, but this goes too far. Time police paid Ricky a visit and told him to pull up his socks and get some pants on.

Fools’ Moon

It’s feared the real reason Russia, China and the US – and even India – are turning their attention to the Moon is not political oneupmanship but to secure precious minerals worth quadrillions. It’s like the 19th century “Race for Africa” all over again. It’s the new imperialism, but with no people to oppress. And Britain isn’t at the race.

Boggled goggles

Science gets it wrong again. A Stanford University study claims beer goggles don’t make other people more attractive. This is disproved by strong anecdotal evidence. One lunchtime, a mate took me back to a pub where, the previous night, I’d (typically) fallen in love with the barmaid. Night and day. I’d seen two different people in one person.