THINGS aren’t too good at the moment, are they? Apart from the usual crop of man-made disasters-come seismic shocks on a scale unimaginable to us here in the UK. But we have our own problems, don’t we?

As I write this diary comes news of severe storms in the north which, in typically British fashion, informs us of how many crofters are without electricity for 24 hours, but never even mentions damage to the forest.

READ MORE: Forester's Diary: A winter of discontent

It brings to mind Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom’s fated trip to Blackpool all those years ago where they found, you will remember, ‘no wrecks and nobody drownded, ’fact, nothing to laugh at at all’. We must at least try to retain our sense of humour. But when you get to think about it, forestry isn’t all that funny, is it?

Tree surgery conjures up visions of serious men in white coats – somewhat at variance with reality, but not all that funny. The best tree surgery story is the one about the Dublin-based contractors who called their business Tree Fellers. But there were only two of them.

We can dig around for more obscure connections. That boy of Cuthbert’s who did all that ploughing (Cuthbert’s son, geddit?) with his mate Pete Moss and his sister Hazel, she was a right nutter, and her friend Willow, batty about cricket... it’s hard to find any laugh-out-loud moments, isn’t it?

It would take a riveting talent like that of Billy Connolly, who could even find hilarity in the shipyards of the Clyde. Such a shame he never found a career in sawmilling. Laugh?

He started his career in a band. Pity it wasn’t a band saw. If it wasnae for your wellingtonias, where would you be, Billy?

Forestry Journal: Billy Connolly Billy Connolly

But I suppose there is nothing rib-ticklingly funny as Hamish takes off his safety boots and covers the kitchen floor with a mixture of mud and sawdust, and Ianto slides down from the operator’s seat on the new forwarder. It must be his responsibility for all that expensive machinery that gives him such a serious expression.

Trees aren’t all that much help. Ash can be a girl’s name or a boy’s, but whichever, ash is in trouble.

Let’s dig a little deeper. No good are oak, beech, elm, chestnut (now there’s an old joke) and the conifers are even less help. I’m looking to yew, Calyptus, and for Mack Crocarpa, among just a few others to lend a slightly exotic note.

But down here in England, we have the biggest joke of all. It’s called the Forestry Commission, Forestry England or whatever, and it has brought us the Environmental Land Management Scheme – ELMS. You have to smile, at least, and wonder who was so hopeless as to provide an acronym which describes a past disaster in the English landscape and link it to the idiotic target for new planting in the lowlands – doomed to failure, and one which even the usually placid Confor doesn’t endorse.

You could say that nothing changes much, couldn’t you? In the last seven days I have heard on my radio an expert on migratory species of birds holding forth on the evils of coniferous forestry, not just new woods with a balance of commercial and environmental benefits but an out-and-out condemnation of conifers. I’m sorry to have to repeat this again and again, but aren’t we all fed up with this? Not at all funny, is it? 

And then there’s firewood. All over the national press. Who would have thought it was so dangerous? Once again, no balance in the stories of particles clogging up our airways, no balance in the different effects of suburban fumes from trendy open fireplaces, and country dwellers’ woodburners.

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And how does Drax power station get away with importing woodchips by the ship load, all the way from the US, to warm a few houses in the north of England, and to get a huge government subsidy at the same time? You could plant a lot of trees for this kind of money,  and sequester a whole lot of carbon.

Yes, times are hard, inflation runs amok, the NHS – once our pride and joy – crumbles before our rheumy eyes, we send rockets to Ukraine (now where will that lead us?), and everyone – with the possible exception of the Commission – is on strike.

But I met a little man last week who asked how would we know if the Commission is on strike or not. I expect it’s a question of priorities. Nurses verses Sitka, or, just wait a little moment, here’s Douglas riding to the rescue. And to think that zero-emissions targets were once the great hope for a resurgent forestry industry.

You have to laugh, don’t you? Or perhaps ... to weep.