LIKE me, most of you will have been worrying all week about where to build your nuclear shelter.

No? You Earthlings never cease to amaze me. Mad threats of nuclear annihilation from nutter state Russia have been greeted with jaw-dropping insouciance.

Actually, on one level, this is an understandable response, as even the fathomless dumbos in Moscow must realise that our doom is theirs. I’m surprised we haven’t brought this to their attention more.

At a political level, we seem unwilling even to call a nutter a nutter and a liar and a liar. No wonder my application to the diplomatic service was never even acknowledged. At the negotiating table: “‘Oy, nutter! Can it or you and I will be stepping outside!”

As for a nuclear shelter, I concluded I’d be as well wearing my thickest woolly hat, which I would first soak in water. I’ve been thinking recently of making a will, but there doesn’t seem much point now, if we’re all going to go at the same time.

This week, in another bizarre episode of brain-frying lunacy, the Russians have been putting up posters in their bus shelters declaring the loony liberal Swedes to be Nazis, and pointing the finger at loves of mine like Ingmar Bergman and Astrid Lindgren, who of course detested Hitler and his cronies, even if Lindgren did once confide to her wartime diary that she feared the Russians more. Given recent events in Ukraine, you’d have to concede there isn’t much in it.

In my beloved Finland (never been, of course; as with everywhere, the reality would be a crushing disappointment), meanwhile, they already have nuclear bunkers with room for four million people.

They’re always one step ahead of us. Atavistically, this was caused by the cold forcing them to plan ahead for food. It made the Nordics more intelligent than the rest of us. In Scotland back in the day, whenever there was an ice age, we just said: “Ah’ll just sit it oot till the chippie reopens.”

But Putin better not put the boot in to Finland. With Ukraine, fleetingly, most red-blooded folk opposed to evil must have considered going over in an International Brigades sort of way. However, just as the triumphant Roman might have a slave whispering in his ear, “Remember, you are mortal”, I have an inner voice that says: “Remember, you’re a coward.”

That said, if they attacked my beloved Finland or Sweden, I might be tempted … to send a small financial donation.

It’s been crazy reading about bizarre characters on Russian television glibly talking about wiping out Britain. Whole country appears to be an absolute loonocracy. It’s difficult fighting a war against the irrational.

Thankfully, we have Boris Johnson at the helm here and, to be fair, whatever his other faults – like his Tory hero, Churchill – he has played a blinder on this. The Ukrainians love him to bits. Different folks have different strengths, I suppose.

As sure as eggs is eggs, we will be dragged into war, rather than just acting as storeman, as we have done hitherto. That said, signs have been emerging of a bolder British attitude, with leading journal of military strategy, the Daily Star, headlining one piece of analysis: “Nuke us and you die too, dimwit.”

After inadvertently watching a film about it (I thought The War Game was going to be a rollicking tale of military derring-do), I grew up worrying about nuclear annihilation. But, whether it’s existential destruction or serious illness or economic woes, eventually your mind gets bored fretting about the same stuff and you just sit down and watch Sportscene. No one really cares about nuclear annihilation any more. It’s so 1950s.

Ticked off

AS scientists warn of warmer temperatures bringing an increase in disease-bearing ticks, NHS 24 has reported a rise in calls from folk concerned about bites.

I’ve been bitten again recently, finding one of the infernal blood-sucking mites buried head-first in my thigh. If you find yourself in deer country, it’s a good idea to run your hands down your body when you turn in to bed at night, feeling for tiny bumps. I’m aware that the foregoing might be misconstrued by tittering immoralists, but my message is a serious one. You don’t want to be catching that Lyme disease.

Already this year, I’ve found deer – which carry the ticks – in my garden several times. Though I’ve put up 75 yards of fence, there are gaps in the natural border that they exploit, bounding through with a cry of: “Let’s all go to Rab’s!”

You only get a sympathetic hearing from medics if an RAF-type roundel appears at the bite, but these don’t occur in all cases. Far from it.

Recent theories about witchcraft suggest these roundels appearing on country women might have been interpreted by thick Earthlings as the mark of the devil.

It’d be interesting to see the looks on the faces of that era’s viciously pious, ancestors of today’s woke, if they could come forward in time and examine some female tattoos, particularly those featuring the face of Jeremy Bieber. Truly, the work of Satan.

Even bees can do it

Bees can distinguish between odd and even numbers, according to important research by Australian scientists. The controversial insects got sweet rather than bitter water by choosing cards depicting an even number of shapes over those with an odd number. Beyond impressing humans in experiments, there is no other known use for this skill.

Load of aurochs

Aurochs news, and a modern version of the popular ancient cattle could soon be unveiled, following genetic jiggery-pokery and selective breeding with Hielan’ coos and suchlike. Aurochs sparked the birth of civilisation by ushering in an era of farming. But, apart from that, they just stood around munching grass and farting.

Flower potty

Leave your lawnmower in the shed this month. Conservation charity Plantlife says letting wildflowers grow instead is good for the ecosystem. British folk go doolally on spotting a daisy, rushing out to slaughter them all and giving lawns the horticultural equivalent of a thuggish buzzcut, Britain’s favourite hairstyle. Said it before: this is a brutish country.

Bot rot

Cambridge Yooni boffins have developed a robot that can tell if your food is sufficiently seasoned. Eh? We’re still waiting to get robots that can do the basics, like go doon to the shops in the morning for the paper and a tin of breakfast cider. Robots are like country buses: you keep hearing about such things but never see one.

Wheel deal

Plans for a new space hotel on a rotating wheel are now well advanced. Billed as “a sci-fi dream”, available distractions will include trying sports in rubbish gravity. However, unlike on planet Earth, you won’t be able to smuggle in fish suppers and cairry-oots, like we all do at Premier Inns (when their prices haven’t sky-rocketed).

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