I'M not a fan of Sober October. It's bad enough that Dry January is a thing. Now we have a biannual dose of halo polishing from those pledging to stay off booze for a month.

This time of year is bleak enough – rotten weather, the shortening days, dusting off the old SAD lamp – without having to abide folk being sanctimonious that they are on the wagon until after Halloween.

It is classic humblebrag. Virtue signalling on a colossal scale. Everything about it grates.

Before you go saddling up the high horses, I'm not decrying MacMillan Cancer Support, which organises Go Sober For October, the opportunity to do some fundraising.

Nor am I making light of the serious issues surrounding alcohol addiction. Far from it. If anything, Sober October could be seen to trivialise such struggles. It's like saying: "Look how easy this is". Which must stick in the craw of those who don't find it a jolly jape.

In a nutshell? Sober October is for blowhards. It is geared towards the narcissistic martyrs of social media. I have a similarly low tolerance for anyone who talks about "adulting" or names their offspring after Game of Thrones characters.

If you are worried about binge drinking, I'm not sure that binge sobriety is really the answer. The concept you are grasping for is moderation. But that's far less exciting. Not as much fun for wry Facebook posts or regaling colleagues as you wait for the office kettle to boil.

Far better to go to extremes. What a hoot. Here's a picture of a mug of hot cocoa when usually by this point on a Saturday night I've given my liver a right old hammering with the hooch. Chortle!

Sober October participants can cough up £15 for a "Golden Ticket" which entitles them to a night off from the toils of abstinence. Seriously? That's like flagging down the broom wagon mid-marathon and hopping in, only to re-emerge a few miles later and triumphantly crossing the finish line.

At least running a marathon is an achievement. Being sponsored for going a month without alcohol is money for nothing. Like when you buy a Groupon voucher that lies forgotten in the back of your wallet until it expires. Then gets thrown in the bin.

I can't fathom what is considered heroic or selfless about it. You are not donating platelets to help with life-saving treatments or giving up your Sunday morning to run errands for someone who is too sick to make it to the shops themselves. You are sitting on your backside doing sweet [beep] all.

The relationship many Scots have with alcohol is far too tempestuous and volatile for a month-long sobriety fest to ring anything other than hollow. I'm sure there are other countries in the world where eschewing alcohol is no different to giving up a daily coffee.

That's simply not the case here. Because you know that for a significant number of those taking part, Sober October is simply a licence to get blind drunk on November 1.

Chances are that come December those crowing about laying off the bevvy will be the same ones who get so sloshed at the office Christmas party that they need to be put in a taxi home by 9pm.

Although not before having first done the baby shark dance, taken pie-eyed selfies and slurred some home truths into the ear of the managing director.

The next day they will wake up with The Fear and swiftly sign up to do Dry January.

A load of gobbledy Goop

HOW does Gwyneth Paltrow sleep at night, I hear you ask? On a pillowy cloud of money extracted from gullible fools who happily shell out for vaginal steam-cleaning potions or "moon dust" herbal remedies to sprinkle over their morning smoothie.

Even after her lifestyle brand Goop paid out £112,000 last month – jade eggs claimed to boost women's sexual energy were branded "ridiculous and dangerous" by doctors – Paltrow is still banging the same drum.

On some level you've got to admire the brass neck. She went on BBC Breakfast last week and talked gibberish about "healing modalities" and trying to empower women let down by conventional Western medicine.

After all, you can't get a Goop "medicine bag" – a drawstring pouch of shiny crystals at £76 a pop – on the NHS.

It is a modern-day cautionary tale of the Emperor's New Clothes. Or the Empress's New Age Junk.

Weather woes

I'M calling it: the end is nigh. How else do you explain the weather we've been having?

Wind and rain early in the week saw streets from Bearsden to Biggar littered with broken umbrellas, snapped in their prime and left where they perished like fallen comrades.

There was little time to mourn their passing as Wednesday was officially Taps Aff! The only downside: I had already set the burners full throttle to autumn mode and was wholly unwilling to do a U-turn at this juncture, which all-in made for a rather uncomfortable, sweaty day.

My bus driver would seem to be a similarly like-minded fellow because despite the temperature nudging 20C, he still opted to have the heating cranked up to the max. Hello, sauna bus! By the time we had trundled three stops, I was a melted puddle on the floor.

The changing of the seasons gives rise to all kinds of peril, chiefly Coat Anxiety. Throw on a thin jacket and get frostbite walking the dog. Venture out sans hooded anorak and arrive at work looking like a drowned rat. The list is endless.

But all of this is merely a preamble for the Big One, a subject that strikes fear into the heart of Scots everywhere: supermarket shelves devoid of bread and milk. Winter is coming.