WITH breathtaking irresponsibility, this column has frequently touted the possibility that, one day, we’ll need to leave this hellish planet and settle doon somewhere else.

However, with bewildering honesty, we have also pointed oot that ooter space is rubbish, just bleak blackness with a bunch of rotating dust bowls with piles of stanes lyin’ aboot on them. Now, we find ourselves confirmed in our arguably irrational prejudice by none other than … Captain Kirk. Yup, him oot o’ Star Wars, or whatever it was called.

William Shatner, Kirk’s stage name, went boldly where some other people had been already when he joined the first civilian space flight on one of Jeff Bezos’s Blue Origin crafts.

The former Jedi was excited, believing his heid would be full of wonder and his heart bursting at the magnificence of it all. Alas, he did not like what he saw: “a cold, dark, black emptiness”. Yep, that’s the one.

He was, he says in his new book Boldly Go, “flooded with grief”. At his age, mind, he could have been flooded with worse. He went on: “The feeling wasn’t a warmth or a glow that required poetry to express it; it was ominous. It was the opposite of life.” Aye, well.

Worse still, it made him look at Earth, this putrid loony bin where everything eats everything else, with new warmth and appreciation. He saw too how fragile and wee it was, making him conclude that we should look after it better.

It’s arguable, I suppose. But he must know that Earthlings make a bags of everything. And that, anyway, it’ll be a waste of time stoatin’ aboot saying “Hello birds, hello trees” when Mad Vlad or Kim Jong-nutball or Alistair Khamenei have their fingers on the big red button. They’re worse than that Gareth Vader, if that was the name.

Tell you a funny thing aboot ooter space: it starts 66 miles up from Earth. That’s just 20-odd miles more than the distance from Glasgow to Edinburgh where, just as astronauts report of space, the inhabitants suffer from muscle atrophy, nasal congestion, excessive flatulence, and being up themselves.

I think we’re stuck here, folks. It takes ages to get to Mars anyway, even without ScotRail running the service, and once you’re there you can’t get a phone signal, making life intolerable. At least here we’ve got fitba’ and the telly. Make the most of it while you can, readers.

Sick wellness

ALTHOUGH an influential socialist – if that’s the one that imprisons the wealthy – your arguably pea-brained columnist feels like a right-wing nutter from the TaxPayers’ Alliance when it comes to squandering public money.

It offends me morally, intellectually and spiritually. So you can imagine how a bee took up residence in my millinery when I read about civil service chiefs in yonder England squandering £500,000 on “mindfulness” and “relaxation” apps for their staff. This at a time of austerity for the proletariat and other Waitrose shoppers.

Admittedly, the bizarre expenditure does not relate to the Bolshevik Royalist Nirvana of Scotland but, as we’re much more socialist than our southern neighbours, one would not be surprised to learn of similar madness emanating from Edinburgh.

The “wellness” – ugh, word makes me sick – programmes included “creating a safe space”, “soothing anxiety”, and Dame Mary Berry reading a bedtime story about a tea party. Chris Advunson, the Head of Sleep Stories for one of the app producers, California-based Calm, said its Berry programme “gives permission to grown-ups … to return to what was one of the most comforting and soothing experiences they’d had as children”.

This at a time when “grown-ups” are supposed to have taken charge of the Westminster Government. And what about that job title? Head of Sleep Stories! I could do that. Readers’ chorus: “Certainly could. Your stories already send us to sleep.” Shut up, youse.

In other extravagant expenditure, it emerged that Jeremy Hunt, the Chancellor planning spending cuts, is spending on cuts at 11 Downing Street where a wummin charges him £110 – minimum – to do his hair. You say: “Aye, but it’s his ain money, ken?” Aye, but we pay his fat salary.

Gladys Lopez, the hair economist under advisement, numbers Brad Pitt, Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford among her clients. She specialises in “keratin, tape extensions, fine hair and tailored haircuts”. I see. That’s all right then.

Less all right, at first glance, was the revelation that cooncils UK-wide have spent £850,000 on air fresheners over the last three years. The aforementioned TaxPayers’ Alliance said the authorities were “keen to cover up the stench of wasted money”. In a surprise development, Glasgow Cooncil came top in this fiscal carnage, with an air freshener bill of more than £42,000, which a spokesperson said “refers to every spray and room freshener in thousands of rooms and toilets in every school, care home, children’s unit, homeless shelter and council staff office in Glasgow over the past three years”.

That’s probably fair enough, which is why, with coruscating perspicacity, I said “at first glance” earlier. But I’d still like to see the receipts before the cooncil comes up smelling of roses.

Alexa can shuffle off

New problem with Alexa: those on the cheapest Amazon package no longer get the song requested but “similar” ones from a “shuffled” playlist. Shuffled? What sort of freak uses that anyway? Play the damned songs in the order of the album. First World problem, I know, but shuffling really rips my knitting. Grrr!

Naming names

The people of Perth voted that their new museum should be called … Perth Museum. Better than Museum McMuseumface. The new museum, at the grand old Perth City Hall, should be fab. The Stone of Destiny is being moved there from Edinburgh Castle, providing one less reason to visit the capital’s hideously overpriced “attraction”.

Raining remains

Periodically, I fret about what’s to happen with my body when my rubbish life is over. Latest trend is having one’s ashes dropped by drone, mostly over sea but also fields or meadows. Wind could be problematic, blowing the ashes towards watching mourners. You’d be getting in folks’ faces, or even up their noses, one last time.

Fake all

Lower middle-class store John Lewis reports candle sales up 12%, as folk prepare for power cuts. But punters who’ve suffered fires caused by candles warn of the dangers. Yep, candles get on your wick. Use LED candles and lights instead. Their unrealistic flickering is charming. Go fake, folks. It’s the only way to fight frightful reality.

Fat dummies

Crash test dummies for cars are being made larger to reflect the lieges’ growing obesity. Manufacturers now make them up to 19½ stone, factoring in that fatties overwhelm activated airbags, risking serious injury. Bigger cars are surely next. Even borderline tubbies have trouble exiting the average saloon. We speak from experience.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.