Rather than tune in to the Harry and Meghan show, I was sorely tempted to watch old reruns of Star Trek.
Not that I was looking for Scotty – fine Aberdonian that he is – to beam me up and away from the royal stooshie, but more out of a sense of synchronicity.
You see, the last time a royal was spilling the beans on TV, was the same night I was sitting in the Assembly Hall in Edinburgh in fanboy rapture watching Leonard Nimoy.
Yes, the actual Mr Spock, in the flesh in front of me, talking about his book I Am Spock. I had queued around the block to get in to this once-in-a-lifetime event in 1995 and it was worth every moment.
However, the Star Trek legend ended his session by making a quip about letting people away because he knew there was a “certain TV interview people were wanting to watch”.
That would be the Princess Diana chat with Martin Bashir, happening that night.
Personally, I would’ve preferred if Spock, sorry Nimoy, kept chatting to us all night.
I had absolutely zero interest in a “woe-is-me” blub fest from someone living a life of privilege.
I went to the pub instead of going home to spectate at this “unmissable television”. Had that been an option last night, I might have done the same.
Because, frankly, who cares?
The whole “he said, she said.. oh, my feelings” debacle is the sort of tat soap opera that holds my interest as much as an episode of EastEnders. Which is precisely zero.
And the hysteria around it is sad. Dysfunctional families and individuals need sympathy and privacy, not a public scolding or viewed as entertainment – even if they put themselves up for it.
Bread and circuses indeed.
We have enough on our plates as it is. Dealing with a global pandemic that has shattered our lives should be the centre of our attention.
Working together to get us out of lockdown is our prime goal, not gawping at a couple of rich kids talking to a US chat show host.
Having a Westminster government that has led us blithely to Brexit on a road paved with lies should have our full attention.
Hey Boris, where’s that £350 million that was going to the NHS every week after we crashed out of Europe? Not heading into the paypackets of the health staff who saved your life, obviously.
Instead of holding politicians to account for ruining our future, we are gossiping about the doings of people so far removed from the reality of the lives we live it should make our heads spin.
In the midst of this fiasco, media commentators are bleating about the damage being done to the royal family by the rogue Harry and Meghan. Good.
Perhaps it might do so much damage, we all stop and have a hard think about the royals and their future in our society.
The Queen deserves thanks for her life of unstinting service. You cannot question what she means to so many people and the respect she commands. But Royal Family: The Next Generation? No thanks.
Rangers fans made a mockery of sacrifice
I wanted to go and hang out with thousands of folk at the fireballs in Stonehaven at Hogmanay, but I couldn’t.
I want to meet my mates for a pint in the flesh and not just clink beer glasses through a screen in a Zoom chat, but I can’t.
I want to book to go to Las Vegas to celebrate a big birthday this year, but I know that will not happen.
I want to go down the road to Edinburgh to see my family, but that’s a no-no.
I want to get out and about and not be cooped up in my house, but I know I have to thole it.
I don’t like any of that, and with each passing day it’s chaffing at me even more.
But I accept it, because I know it is the right thing to do to save lives and get us out of lockdown faster.
And then thousands of idiots ride roughshod over the sacrifice the rest of the country has made, just because a football team won something.
The scenes from George Square in Glasgow were stomach-turning.
Those Rangers fans were sticking two fingers up at everyone who has lost a loved one, not been able to visit a relative in a care home, lost their job and the myriad other personal calamities the pandemic has brought.
I hope the cheering buffoons enjoyed themselves, while the rest of the country looked on in horror and feared how far back this might set us on the road to normality.
Stunning setting acts as a reminder
My quest to ease the Groundhog Day existence of lockdown has seen me seeking out new walks.
Sometimes, though, familiarity can breed not contempt, but wonder.
The other night I took the well-worn route up to Stonehaven’s War Memorial for a post-work stomp.
I arrived in time to watch a glorious sunset behind the hills to the west in a riot of colours.
Then I turned round and watched a full moon rise from the sea, casting an orange then silver beam across the water. Simply stunning.
It was a reminder we are so lucky to live where we do… and should appreciate it more often.