Could this be the year that I say goodbye to all tatt?

Recently, I’d stopped worrying about it for a while, but a top article in His Majesty’s Press this week brought it all back when it reported colourful actor Brian Blessed saying tattoos were an ancient and universal phenomenon.

They link, he said, inked fellows waddling down Western high streets with tribesmen stoatin’ aboot in far-off forests.

We’re all Jock Tamson’s bairns, and we all want a tattoo with “Mum” on it. Well, not all. My Mum would have booted me up the fundament if I’d returned from a tattooterie with any such thing.

It’s possible the urge for tattoos is etched in the DNA of Scottish people, given that our ancestors, yon Picts, were supposedly covered in the things. Their ancient name, Picti, is said to mean “painted people”, a name given them by the Romans, who weren’t averse to talking tripe.

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Fanciful illustrations of Picts show them covered in tattoos, yea, even unto their very coupons.

Today, you see folks, mainly in crime reports, with tattoos on their faces. This is going too far, particularly if featuring the words “This way up”.

Somewhere more discreet would be preferable. I’d consider one over my BCG mark and a matching one on the other arm, where there’s a weird mark from a childhood injury incurred when the spacecraft bringing me here crashed.

That said, I’ve noticed it’s people with small, discreet tattoos who tend to regret them most. Possibly, the smallness and discretion indicate they were doubtful in the first place.

Those whose bodies are covered, on the other hand, appear delighted with their achievement and eager to get dithering saps like moi to join the club. For some, there’s evidently an addictive quality to tattoos. The financial cost must be considerable and, arguably, the money might be better spent on something useful, like booze.

Still, I’ve often thought a colourful tatt would benefit a peely-wally torso like mine. Perhaps I could get a tattoo of a hairy chest. The problem of a motif is difficult, particularly as I don’t believe in anything.

A flower from The Lord of the Rings is a candidate. I like flowers but fear the other fellows might find it effete. I could opt for somewhere more discreet than my arms, of course, but a man in my position cannot be seen marching into a tattooist’s clinic, announcing: “I’d like a tattoo of an elvish flower on my private parts.”

As indicated earlier in this homily or lecture, I am unlikely to come to a decision about a tattoo this year. But I will continue to think about it.

Checking out

HERE’S an idea: hibernation. You say: “Ah’m no a hedgehog or a bear, ken?” Oh, I ken. But scientists may have found evidence, from fossilised bones in a Spanish cave, that hundreds of thoosands of years ago, humans hibernated.

If we could re-activate the gene that allowed us to do this, there might be benefits for health and space travel. Putting folk into a state of hibernation or, in shorter periods, “torpor” – sounds fantastic! – could prevent damage caused by cardiac arrest or stroke. It could also fend off famine. Mice go into this state when there’s nowt to eat, even off my kitchen floor, where most of them gather. As for ooter space, hibernating astronauts could gallivant to yonder Mars without needing much food and, with their cells relatively inactive, they’d be less at risk from radiation.

Apart from that, the idea of just checking out of this Earthly nonsense for a decent period is appealing. Or is it? Most evenings, I check out on the couch for an hour or so after my booze-infused dinner, and always feel right wabbit when I wake up.

But maybe it’d work better in the longer term, when I hadn’t had a dram or eaten in months, waking up and thinking: “I could murder a white pudding supper.” Only to find that, in the interregnum, these had been deemed racist and banned.

Unlike the aforementioned hedgehogs and bears, I’d prefer to hibernate in summer, escaping the heat, tourists, midges and The Droning or neverending horticultural racket. Actually, as someone who doesn’t enjoy life, I might hibernate all year round. Just think, never having to watch Hibs again: Hibeernation.

However, a nagging voice in ma heid says it’s wise to have your wits about you. What if someone broke in and stole all my forks (see last week’s explosive revelations)? What if Kim al-Putin had lobbed a nuke at my island and, while everyone else had fled to the shelters, I awoke to find ma heid incinerated?

No, it’s essential to stay vigilant, folks, particularly with 2023 approaching. I went to see one of yon oracles, and she said: “This coming annus is going to be right mental, ken?” Oh, I ken. Still: happy New Annus, folks!

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That’s another fine mess
Women do more domestic chores because they see mess differently than men do, according to an important study by Cambridge Yoonie. Women see a job that needs doing. Men just see disarray and accept it as natural. Scientists call this socially conditioned, neural difference “gendered affordance perception”. Yes, we thought they might.

Shoe cares?
Women are so ferocious these days that you’re scared to say anything. But don’t blame us. Once more, it’s yon Cambridge Yoonie, which found that women are more empathetic than men. They can put themselves in other people’s shoes. Maybe that’s because they have a thing about shoes. Ach, who cares?

Backing baddies
The Nutter Republic of North Korea is selling weapons to Russia’s appalling Wagner mercenaries. It’s as if they say, “Oh, they’re right evil. They certainly have our backing.” Putin, Iran, North Korea. You’d think that, with the company they keep, one of them might ask, after the famous Mitchell and Webb sketch: “Are we the baddies?”

Fox check
Top telly puppet Basil Brush says folk confuse him with First Minister Nicola Sturgeon because they both have ginger hair. This would be understandable if Nics had ginger hair. But she doesn’t. Still, the amiable woolly fox considers himself part-Scottish and proudly wears the kilt without pants, manfully ignoring the breeze around his Gorbals.

Diet hard
According to the British Dietetic Association, New Year diets can be “psychologically damaging”, as folk feel they’re not good enough as they are. Also, they can lead to yo-yo dieting. I tried that once, but had trouble digesting the yo-yos.