NOW that the election is over it has fallen to me, as the voice of reason on this newspaper, to say a few ill-chosen words before moving on to more important topics.

My words are these: despair; hope; panic. They’re joined together by the word “don’t”. Don’t despair. If you were disappointed this time, you’ll get another chance in five years’ time (British time, that is), unless you die of poverty in the meanwhiles.

Don’t panic. Yes, by all means, stock up on tinned food and cancel your holidays. These are sensible, prudent measures. But don’t run around flapping your wings like a chicken and shouting “Doomed”.

No good ever came of that. It’s been my daily habit for nigh on 40 years, and look where it’s got me. (I remember well the wise words of my wonderful primary school teacher, Miss McDonald: “If you don’t apply yourself, Robert, you will end up as a newspaper columnist.”)

Above all, don’t get your hopes up. If you think all the shouting, acrimony and grievance are going away, you’re in for a big surprise, particularly if you’re unlucky enough to live in Scotland, as my researchers tell me many of you do.

There’s always a sense of otherness about being Scottish. We are not as other men. Always something not quite right about us. Too childish and dense to run our own affairs. Badly dressed. Bad diet. Bad luck. And that’s before we get to the politics, which I don’t intend discussing here, when I do not have strong drink before me.

It felt even more otherly where I live. I didn’t really want to vote but stoated doon the road dutifully, with snow-capped mountains in the distance and a right lively sea jitterbugging aboot nearby.

The internet news showed London polling stations with long queues, mainly of mushy-brained young people turning up to use their vote irresponsibly. But it was only me and one other middle-aged bloke at the village hall. For a while, they couldn’t find my name on the register, and I entertained the hope that I could get away with not voting. Alas, eventually, I remembered my name (“I’m sure it’s ‘Mc-Something’”) and, to groans all round, they found it, so I waddled into the daft wee booth, took out my folding chair and proceeded to think for a couple of hours.

Thinking always depresses me, as it may do you too (hope you like all the one-syllable words here, spoiled only by “syllable”), so to cheer you up let me tell you some news, brought to you here, er, exclusively: Christmas is coming.

Yes, indeed. As I understand it, it’s a time to be merry, ken? That’s why it’s such a busy time for The Samaritans – nothing more disturbing than compulsory cheer, particularly if you’re on your tod or skint, as are many people in Britain, the country to which some poor souls which to emigrate in search of a happy life. It’s the worst advice you ever hear: there are folk worse off elsewhere. Brilliant news!

Here’s some other news just in: we’re all liars. Yes, you thought it was just the politicians. But you’ve been at it all the time. I know I have, though I restrict it to avoiding social invitations: “I’m sorry but that’s the day I’m having my ingrowing eye removed.”

According to a survey of 12,000 bank customers across 13 countries, conducted by University College London and three other universities, more than a third of people in relationships lie to their partners about their finances, such as debt, loans and earnings.

It’s been branded “financial infidelity” and, if you add in the more normal infiddly ellity, or stuff you’ve made up about your background in the special forces, that’s just about everybody covered.

What a state of affairs. It’s getting to the stage where the only place you can go to for truth is newspapers, something I never expected to see in my lifetime. Accordingly, I leave you with some words of hope, panic and despair. Make a run for it it. Just run. Somebody will take you in. Even if, as Scots, we’re not easily taken in.

++++

THE biggest mistake we make is thinking that we, the latest generation of homo sapiens, are also the brightest. Not so. Look at the ancient Greeks. They were on the go aboot 2,469 years ago and, while they didn’t have the wits to invent television or anoraks, they were quite good at philosophy and plays.

Many of them were brainier than most of us. If you doubt that, think about Aristotle and a ned sitting down in a pub to discuss the world. The old Greek would win hands-down, even with six pints of special down his laimos.

Let us flit merrily from ancient Greece to another hub of civilisation: North Korea. There, leading nutter Kim Jong-un, not content with flinging missiles about, has started bunging insults hither and also yon, calling US president Donald Trump “a dotard” again.

Apparently, he’s still in a huff about Big D calling him “little rocket man”, though the real reason is he’s just craving world attention.

To my point: this is the best we have to offer in 2019 – world leaders calling each other “dotard” and “rocket man”. Our fate today could lie with two dense bairns: a Greek tragedy indeed.

++++

IT is heartening to read about top and fair to middling academics attending a symposium at Edinburgh College of Art on the subject of … Kate Bush. And why not? She has touched many lives with her warbling and stoating aboot on stage.

Academics are forever getting it in the neck for studying a lot of nonsense like philosophy, stuff on the telly, gender multiplication and so forth. But some aspects of popular culture run deeper than all that. The things we love – provided they have artistic merit and move us in some way – tell us something about ourselves, even if it’s just that we’d probably benefit from getting a takeaway in and having a good greet.

Intriguingly, one boffin at the symposium noted that the more Kate avoided the limelight the more popular she became. A sort of reverse Jo Swinson.

Perhaps, indeed, this is something from which politicians might learn. Don’t go oot. Keep your heid doon. Issue a short, enigmatic statement now and again. And get on with digging your garden.

Also, put on a white dress and leap around in a meadow, singing in a high voice about being let in through the window. A sure vote-winner.

++++

THE BBC’s forthcoming remake of Worzel Gummidge, starring Mackenzie Crook, will be shoehorning in an environmental message about not using plastic.

You’ll have heard me moaning before about politically correct “homework” being added to our television viewing, but I think this is a legit message for bairns and adults alike.

As for Gummidge, I’ve surely told you about the time I was compared to him. But it’s a cautionary tale that bears repeating. I’d been on a night out, during which I had become unaccountably inebriated. Deciding to walk home, in the hope of sobering up a bit, I took a shortcut through some woods where I stopped to micturate at the top of a muddy slope.

Alas, trying to position myself sturdily with some less than defty footwork, I fell doon the aforementioned slope, rolling helplessly like a right poltroon.

Though aware I must have looked a tad scruffy, with mud all over me and twigs sticking oot ma heid, I wasn’t hurt so I just carried on home regardless, whereupon I was informed that I looked like the aforementioned Gummidge.

Moral of the story: it’s better for the environment and your face if you take a wizz indoors.

Read more: The trouble with style, speaking wrongly and getting old