Figures of fun who do not make me happy

As I understand it, random citizens are caught with butterfly nets then bundled into black vans, where they're made to breathe into a canister while sedated by a recorded speech from Ed Miliband.

The sample is then taken to Porton Down research establishment in Secretshire where it's mixed with some liquidised Benny Hill videos and the resulting concoction measured by white-coated technicians. The results are then collated by the above-mentioned Office for National Ecstatics

Unsurprisingly, it has reached some odd conclusions. For starters, the happiest part of England and the Other Bits is Northern Ireland, usually deemed the most economically depressed bit.

For pudding — and you may wish to stand by with a vat of eggs — the second happiest part of the kingdom is (fanfare of kazoos): Scotia Minor.

Say what? Are they taking the bliss? True, the study was carried out over the past year and its collating will have preceded the referendum result. But some commentaries — used in the modern sense of news reports — suggest taking part in the campaign had made people happy.

Since only one side really had a campaign (as opposed to a bunch of suits speaking to hand-picked sympathisers or an ambitious statesman on a soapbox trying to foment trouble), and these were numerically in the minority, this doesn't compute statistically or ecstatically.

You say: "But Her Majesty, a queen, purred with pleasure." Fair point, but she's only one monarch. Nearly all my friends were devastated. They were happy while campaigning but it was the joy of the lark shortly before being shot by a capering Jock or professional Highlander in a wax jacket bearing a "No thanks" badge.

There's no lifting some of them. Mirth cannot move a soul in agony, as the blessed English bard put it. They're sadder but wiser about their countrymen.

As I'm despondent most of the time, I didn't think it would affect me. But, believing I'd reached rock-bottom thanks to life's wicked vicissitudes (knew I'd have a use for that pudding and vat of eggs), I fell further through the floor.

Devil on left shoulder: "You live in the worst country in the world." Angel on right shoulder: "Don't be daft." "You do." "What about some of these places in the Third World? Starving an' all." "At least they're not fearties." "Fair point." "Why don't we agree on most pathetic country in the world?" "Agreed." "Yay."

The Nays will be contented at a grim job well done. "Aye, ye'll no' get us to rule our own affairs, ya bastirts." Pensioners: "It might be the lowest pension in Europe but it's safe, it's safe!" The smug wealthy: "Truly, we are blessed. We live in a golden age of food banks."

They won't be happy-crappy for long. As the old saying (amended for political correctness) goes: If you would be happy for a week take a spouse. Or win a referendum.

That said, one wonders about the relationship between happiness and locale. In my experience, everywhere is rubbish. During the campaign, I indulged the fantasy of moving to Glasgow instead of Norway in the event of a No vote.

Wonderful Glasgow, named world's friendliest city this week by travel publisher Rough Guides, produced spontaneous scenes of joy in George Square. Then, on September 19, loyalist louts (or, in BBC-speak, "both sides") took it over and ran riot.

As somebody on yonder Twitter tweeted: "Overnight Woodstock became Belfast." It was terribly disappointing, even if reports suggested these leading intellectuals had come by train from some of Scotland's less well-known holiday destinations.

Though lacking forelocks on their shaven heads, they tugged them metaphorically as they sang of their unreciprocated love for the Queen. Prime Minister David Cameron loves her too and apologised for letting the cat out of the bag about her purring. All's well between Downing Street and Buckingham Palace. Aw, I love a happy ending.