Now, before I start, I assure you… I’m in no mood to poke the hornet’s nest. Been there, done that. No, I mean literally. Actually, that’s a poor choice of words; it wasn’t hornets but wasps. And if I chose to ignore the distinction, entomologists with a keen interest in vespids will be giving me a buzz to express their displeasure. So again, damned by poor choices. Just as I found out in the woods by my house, back in the summer of 1983.

This was pre-internet. Or mobile phones. Or anything really. I mean some of the richer kids in the street had hand-held games like Donkey Kong or Snake. And I think one person’s dad had an Amstrad ‘home computer’ that blacked out the entire neighbourhood when it was plugged in. But other than that, you ‘made your own entertainment’. Which for us that summer involved throwing bricks at a wasp’s nest.

Not known for their zen qualities, the vespid hordes took exception to our twisted version of Enid Blyton’s juvenile japery. And they stung f*ck out of us. I recall running home in agony, with the yellow barbs sticking out of my arm like spiky sweetcorn. Wee pricks for a wee prick. Fitting. For, and I return to my gambit, I had chosen…poorly. And I bet right now, you’re thinking of that old knight from ‘Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade’.

Cracking scene. But trusting a Nazi to select the goblet of Christ is quite niche. Poor choices come in a variety of common or garden flavours. And I’ve tasted a lot. I chose poorly when going on a boozy bender with no sun cream on in the scorched hills of Gran Canaria. I chose poorly when sticking my finger into the pet gerbil cage at primary school. Heck, I chose poorly when necking tequila from the bottle last Hogmanay.

All very mundane. And forgivable too. Unless you were the poor bastard sat next to me on the plane back from Gran Canaria – I was wriggling like a puce piglet the whole time. So, I paid for my poor choice. And so did they. But at least there was accountability in play. Something that seems conspicuously lost on so many in a world where fessing up, admitting you were wrong, and showing contrition is seen as a poor choice in itself.

Yes, I know the old aphorism; to err is human, to forgive divine. But that involves acknowledging being in the wrong in the first place. And in our public life that seems increasingly rare. Those twats who chose to chainsaw the tree at Sycamore Gap for example. No remorse. No humility. Not even a flicker of recognition re: what this meant. Banging them up will do nothing to change that, I fear. But I hope to be proved wrong.

All so grim. How about I make a better choice as we harrumph our way to the last dregs of this lesson in the obvious? Let’s choose to extract some fun from the idiocy of the world of poor choices, as envisaged by yours truly.

You can choose to read on without being turned to dust. I promise you. It’s not exactly the Holy Grail of comedy writing. More like a Tupperware selection of light gags to accompany your beer and crisps.

The time Sean Connery was invited to be voiceover for a Citroen ad. Try and read the car’s brand name in your best Sean Connery voice. Poor choice.

Hosting a global arts festival in a city with not nearly enough accommodation. Ha ha… no one would try that would they?! Oh… wait a minute. Poor choice.

Blithely ordering a coffee with milk, in the afternoon, in Italy. I did this last summer. And now I’m in witness protection. Poor choice.

Reducing any major decision affecting a nation to a binary ‘Yes/No’ question. Referendums. Of all types. Cause nothing but rancour. Poor choice/s.

TBH, the more I think about this, the more I like it. So, I’m calling this a wise choice instead. And with that, I shall make another. To wrap this nonsense up. Before you choose to roll up the Leither and batter me round the bonce.

Choose wisely my friends.