As the year approaches the half-way mark, and while we’re still waiting for a summer worthy of the name, there is a staggering statistic about 2024. Around half of the world’s population will vote this year.

Of course, elections in some of the world’s most populous countries make this statistic possible. Polls in Bangladesh, Brazil, India, Indonesia, Mexico, Pakistan, Russia, the United States and the European Union mean billions of people will cast their votes before Hogmanay. In the case of France, the electorate will be doing it twice!

Sadly in many countries around the world, among them Russia, Belarus and Pakistan, there are severe doubts about how fair these plebiscites actually are.

I must admit that when I see TV footage of votes being cast in some countries, it’s the chaos in and around the polling stations that catches my eye, rather than feeling the joy that people are enjoying democracy where they might not have beforehand.

Looking at some of those elections, I have to wonder how the votes can possibly be fair, because it seems to me that even with the input of neutral monitors from other countries, it must be impossible to ensure they are.

Which takes me to our own little event on July 4. The campaigning is ongoing and will fill our eyes and ears for another two weeks with manifestoes, photocalls, promises and pledges.

No matter what we may think of the calibre of the politicians on offer to us, at least we can rest assured that our vote isn’t rigged.

As a veteran of two World Cups and one European Championships, I have come to the realisation that from now on I will be watching any Scottish qualification for major tournaments from the comfort of my own sofa.

I doubt I would even venture as far as a pub to take in our games any more. Why am I such a misanthrope? People!

Back in the day when I was a jobbing journalist, I followed fans of club and country to the big games across Europe and endured more than my fill of beery, teary hugs from inebriated merch-bedecked people while trying to find someone sober enough to give me an interview. It was fun the first time; thereafter it got tedious.

As a fan, I have stood at bubble bath-filled fountains across the continent and sang myself hoarse to be lubricated again by brew. Now I must hand the baton to someone else and reach for the remote.

For the reasons outlined above, this missive was sent from the space time continuum known as Glasgow airport, from where I travelled to Switzerland and not Germany.

I headed to watch Friday night's game between our two nations with my Swiss pals in a very genteel Gasthof in Bern’s wondrous Altstadt. I lived here 35 years ago, and come back every year on a pilgrimage.

I was staggered by a recent BBC radio programme which measured teenagers’ use of their phones. Aghast, I measured my own.

My plane ticket is on my phone. My Swiss railpass is on my phone. The email confirming my accommodation is on my phone. The airport carpark details are on my phone. All my photographs are on my phone. All those dodgy memes my mates send me are on my phone. I file my copy for this column on my phone.

And very occasionally I use it to make phone calls. Fifth limb or what?