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 boy’s 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 “two-finger amulet” next to his todger. Surely, he wouldn’t 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: “And then this angelic figure who was all glowing light showed me the syphilis clinic.” It’s most odd.

Still, this got me to thinking: what would I be buried with? I’ve already explained I don’t 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 I’m expecting any luck there, as I’ve never had any in this wretched existence. But, if there is such a thing as karma, I’d 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 – when I remember, which is rarely – on my wrist. One is to remind me to breathe, which I frequently forget. One is for “Sisu”, 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 ain’t 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 it’s probably all streaming up/down there).

A pair of knee-length socks in case they don’t 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: “You cannae bring anything in here, Rab. We dinnae like material objects, ken?” But the Devil would say: “Ye can bring them doon tae ma gaff, Rab. Nae bother.”

And I’d say to him: “Right, show me the way, Stan, or whatever your name is. By the way, do you do well-fired rolls?”

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 (“liars, manipulators”), and teachers (“too nice”). Men who said “stripper” got it in the neck online for being “misogynistic”. You do the maths on that one. I was surprised journalists didn’t 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 I’ve ever dealt with have been pleasant and trustworthy.

Wish I could say the same for journalists. People are generally taken aback when you say you’re a journalist. They think it’s interesting. How I laugh. Then they always say: “What do you write about?” And I say: “The underlying rate of inflation, geopolitical tensions, women’s fashion.”

Then they say: “Go on, what do you really write about?”

And I say: “War, death, spirituality, DIY.” All of which is true, and they go: “You’re having me on.” And I say: “All right, I confess. I do the horoscope.” Then they say: “I’m Gemini.” And I say: “Ah, the sign of the horse.”

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: “I’ve never felt so awkward in my entire life.”

Know the feeling, though it wasn’t 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 didn’t know either.

That’s life: hot, dense and long

Aw naw. Our days on this godawful planet are getting longer. It’s because Earth’s 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, that’s more than enough to be going on with, thanks.

Moosprinoanced

I’ve been mispronouncing words. Quinoa is “keen-wah”, zoology is “zoe-ology”, whooping cough “hoo-pin-kof”, diphtheria “dif-theer-ee-uh” (not “dip-theer-ee-uh”). Recently, a doctor corrected me for pronouncing fasciitis (foot complaint) “fash-itis” instead of “fashy-itis”. ​I wish I’d had the presence of mind to say that, as it’s from Latin (old and new), it should be “faskie-eetis”. But my mind is rarely present.

Dubious hotel

A Dubai hotel is charging £160,000 a night for a 15-room suite. The cheapest single room is £1,000. I’ve never understood even “ordinary” hotel prices: ridiculous sums for a tiny space. Legislation should peg them at £40 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 year’s 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 “muffin top” doubles women’s risk of frailty in old age. I mention this, not to hector aboot weight, but to reveal exclusively that I had to look up “muffin top”. Genuinely thought it was a woman’s garment. It’s a roll of fat. Every week that passes I feel more ignorant (readers’ chorus: “Correct, sir!”)

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