Since the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness has now given way, via the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s first (and last) autumn statement, to a session of giveaways and gloomy forecasting, I have a helpful suggestion to lighten your darkness.
Last week I threw my ancient and increasingly considerable weight behind our beleaguered young people.
Opinion will be divided over Jackie McNamara’s managerial reign at United.
According to the motto of our own harassed but still hanging-in-there BBC, “nation shall speak peace unto nation”, although at the moment, not so’s you’d notice.
Being deeply unfestive by nature, you don’t tend to get much in the way of jolly frivolity from me as the nights fair dra’ in and the end-of-year report inevitably looms.
Nicola Sturgeon was feted like a rock star in the months post-indyref.
It was meant to be a joke, but in this crazy World Cup even the most outlandish jokes turn into reality.
Can you say brewery? Go on, just try it. three simple syllables. And let’s face it, if I can’t properly enunciate the name of an establishment that produces alcohol, I suspect no-one can.
Since this will be my last column, I hope I can be excused returning again to my real love: sport, and in particular rugby.
I’ve wallowed nostalgically recently in tales of warm sunshine days of yesteryear and soggily sweet memories enshrined in a rose-coloured glow.