RICH ancient Egyptians had their mummified cadavers interred with amulets to bring them fortune in the afterlife. Aye, good luck with that.
One teenage boy was found to have 49 amulets on him, including a golden dung beetle, a daft eye thing and a tit which, as you know, is a knotted symbol associated with Isis (the goddess not the nutters).
This boyâs mummy also had a golden leaf placed in his gub to help him speak (think I spot the fundamental flaw in that plan) and a âtwo-finger amuletâ next to his todger. Surely, he wouldnât be needing the latter in the afterlife?
Not one of the tens of thousands of men reporting near death experiences has mentioned their Jimmy Dingle, nor indeed of seeing public conveniences. I cannot recall one of those returnees saying: âAnd then this angelic figure who was all glowing light showed me the syphilis clinic.â Itâs most odd.
Still, this got me to thinking: what would I be buried with? Iâve already explained I donât want to be cremated as it sounds a bit burny.
So, as my corpse languishes listlessly under a tree, what should lie beside it, to comfort me in the afterlife? Not that Iâm expecting any luck there, as Iâve never had any in this wretched existence. But, if there is such a thing as karma, Iâd be due at least a Lottery win in recompense, assuming they still have that up/down there. Perhaps, just to comfort me, I could be buried with the three bead bracelets that I wear â when I remember, which is rarely â on my wrist. One is to remind me to breathe, which I frequently forget. One is for âSisuâ, a Finnish concept for just carrying on, despite everything being rubbish.
The last is to remind me that Nothing Really Matters, that in the great, rotten scheme of things, most of the things we worry about ainât worth it.
What else might I take? One of my copies of The Lord of the Rings. Something with The Beatles or Hendrix or early Genesis on it. A DVD of School for Scoundrels (though itâs probably all streaming up/down there).
A pair of knee-length socks in case they donât have any there (difficult enough to get them here). A scale model of the spaceship Firefly, from the TV series of that name. Maybe Jesus or Buddha would say: âYou cannae bring anything in here, Rab. We dinnae like material objects, ken?â But the Devil would say: âYe can bring them doon tae ma gaff, Rab. Nae bother.â
And Iâd say to him: âRight, show me the way, Stan, or whatever your name is. By the way, do you do well-fired rolls?â
Cold dates
YOUR job could stop you getting a date, according to a vox pop on yon TikTok.
Unpopular professions or trades included bankers, doctors, rappers, footballers, policemen, lawyers (âliars, manipulatorsâ), and teachers (âtoo niceâ). Men who said âstripperâ got it in the neck online for being âmisogynisticâ. You do the maths on that one. I was surprised journalists didnât figure. We usually get it in the neck, along with estate agents and second-hand car salesmen.
Oddly enough, and quite genuinely, all the estate agents and second-hand car salesmen Iâve ever dealt with have been pleasant and trustworthy.
Wish I could say the same for journalists. People are generally taken aback when you say youâre a journalist. They think itâs interesting. How I laugh. Then they always say: âWhat do you write about?â And I say: âThe underlying rate of inflation, geopolitical tensions, womenâs fashion.â
Then they say: âGo on, what do you really write about?â
And I say: âWar, death, spirituality, DIY.â All of which is true, and they go: âYouâre having me on.â And I say: âAll right, I confess. I do the horoscope.â Then they say: âIâm Gemini.â And I say: âAh, the sign of the horse.â
Strip snub
I READ on proper media that the latest social media trend is the anti-bucket list.
Clichéd activities that folk now deplore include bungee jumping, ziplining, partying at New Year in places famous for it (New York and, presumably by extension,
Edinburgh), experimenting with drugs, running a marathon, going to see a stripper.
Going to see a stripper is something that only women are likely to do these days, the misogynists that they are.
One chap who had done it, back in the days when strippers were women, said in the online debate: âIâve never felt so awkward in my entire life.â
Know the feeling, though it wasnât quite a stripper.
Back in the 1970s, I remember having a lunchtime pint with a mate, and there was a go-go dancer on.
So embarrassing. Honestly, I did know where to look. But that was Edinburgh in the 1970s: difficult to avoid them.
Gyrating libidinously in the packed pub (these were the days), this generously endowed lassie kept giving me the eye while making a little movement with her pinkie.
I asked my mate, more a man of the world than I, what it meant.
He didnât know either.
Thatâs life: hot, dense and long
Aw naw. Our days on this godawful planet are getting longer. Itâs because Earthâs hot, dense inner core is turning more slowly. This happens every 70 years, after which it speeds up again, so it balances out. Though the changes are measured in milliseconds, thatâs more than enough to be going on with, thanks.
Moosprinoanced
Iâve been mispronouncing words. Quinoa is âkeen-wahâ, zoology is âzoe-ologyâ, whooping cough âhoo-pin-kofâ, diphtheria âdif-theer-ee-uhâ (not âdip-theer-ee-uhâ). Recently, a doctor corrected me for pronouncing fasciitis (foot complaint) âfash-itisâ instead of âfashy-itisâ. âI wish Iâd had the presence of mind to say that, as itâs from Latin (old and new), it should be âfaskie-eetisâ. But my mind is rarely present.
Dubious hotel
A Dubai hotel is charging ÂŁ160,000 a night for a 15-room suite. The cheapest single room is ÂŁ1,000. Iâve never understood even âordinaryâ hotel prices: ridiculous sums for a tiny space. Legislation should peg them at ÂŁ40 a night max. Sadly, governments are rarely authoritarian enough to enforce such sensible measures.
Pongy provender
A fruit that smells like raw sewage is this yearâs foodie craze. Durian is a Thai delicacy that tastes like custard or almonds but reeks appallingly. Sensible, authoritarian governments in Asia have banned it from public transport and hotels.
Know muffin
A midlife âmuffin topâ doubles womenâs risk of frailty in old age. I mention this, not to hector aboot weight, but to reveal exclusively that I had to look up âmuffin topâ. Genuinely thought it was a womanâs garment. Itâs a roll of fat. Every week that passes I feel more ignorant (readersâ chorus: âCorrect, sir!â)
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