SO, cheerio my dear chum Studs Terkel who, as a grief-stricken fellow said on the radio, "enfranchised the disenfranchised", as if he were the founder of the Subway sandwich. Mr Studs, who has "passed" at the mighty age of 96, was the oral historian's oral historian, famed for his interviews with "ordinary" Americans.

By the spookiest of coincidences I read one of his interviews just the other day, with the very far-from-ordinary Bob Dylan. "Where," Mr Studs asked for openers, "did you come from, Cotton-Eyed Joe?" That, I confess, would have thrown me, but Mr Dylan pressed on regardless. "The beginning was there in Minnesota. But that was the beginning before the beginning." Mr Studs called Mr D "an American original". The same could be said of him.

Jack must make a clean breast of it
DEAR oh dear! My dear friend, Jack Vettriano, Kirkcaldy's greatest living purveyor of lightly poached porn, says he turned down the opportunity to paint Colin Montgomerie, a golfer, because he doesn't do "men with breasts." No disrespect or offence was intended, said Sad Jack, and added: "I have to paint a face I like. Have you seen Colin Montgomerie's face recently?"

To which one might reply: take a peek in the mirror Jack, you're no Chick Young yourself. However, having pondered on this debacle, I have come to several conclusions, a few of which I feel the need to share with you.

First, it is significant that the National Portrait Gallery denies ever having made any approach to the Kirkcaldy wundercrayonner, who has long nursed a grudge against the arts establishment which thinks he has less talent than Rolf Harris.

Secondly, if Mr Jack only paints faces he "likes" this may explain why his pictures all look the same.

That was not how my dear friend Sandro Botticelli got his gig in the Uffizi. To be sure, he was fond of a bit of breast with his patate al forno but he also recognised that one couldn't be too choosy when someone else was picking up the tab.

Thirdly, I urge my dear friend to reconsider his stance on men's breasts. These days, if an artist wants to be taken seriously, it is the men who have breasts and the women who have ... (complete this sentence at your leisure and away from the prying eyes of weans).

Henceforth, I expect Mr Jack's paintings to show men in bras, thongs and fishnets and women in homburgs, braces and brogues. Therein surely lies the path to critical acclaim and a but'n'ben in posterity.

Howzat for selling out to mammon
YESTERDAY, in Antigua, a team of cricketers won a million dollars each. I could name them but one's brain can only handle so much useless information. The "competition" in which they were playing was underwritten by a Texan twillionaire by the name of Allen Stanford.

The match was what's known as a Twenty20 which, as one cricketing pundit of the old school says, is to real cricket what draughts is to chess. Not for the first time, the blazered brigade has been huffing and puffing on their life support machines. Cricket, say they, has sold its soul for a pot of gold and the end of the world is nigh.

Michael Atherton, in his day, cricket's answer to Alistair Darling, compared Mr Stanford to Jay Gatsby, flashing his dosh to ensure everyone comes to his party. As in the case of Yachtgate, the moral couldn't be simpler: when money talks, grown men slaver.

Meanwhile, several of the cricketers who took part weaseled that they were only really doing so to help popularise the game in the Caribbean. And in another life I was Florence Nightingale. The high point for Mr Stanford came when he bounced the pregnant wife of England's wicket keeper on his knee, for which he made a heartfelt apology, having obviously thought that by enriching her husband he deserved his comeback. What a movie it would all make! How about calling it Indecent Proposal?

Age-old problem for society
YET more gloomy news about our life expectancy. According to the latest figures, life expectancy for Scots is the lowest in the UK. On average, men can now expect to live until they're 74.8 years while women get another five years. Whaur's your equal rights noo?

This would seem to confirm what I've always thought, that at a certain age, say 50, men should be given the option of a sex change op on the National Health. I note, however, that if you can hang on to 65 you can expect to live until you're 82.2. Which is easier said than done. But the brutal truth is that too many people are living for too long with horrendous consequences for society in general.

For instance, there has been a horrendous rise in violent acts committed by old codgers, many of whom stalk the streets dressed in headscarves and bunnets to hide their identities from the authorities.

Near where I live in Fisherrow-sur-mer, it has been revealed that the care home in which I expect to end my days is the epicentre of nasty behaviour. Apparently, some of the inmates are so bored they have resorted to fisticuffs to keep them amused while staff reported 44 incidents of a violent nature in the last year, including throwing cups at innocent walls and thwacking decent folk with walking sticks.

What these grizzled malcontents need is a generous dose of tear gas.

Jockeying for position in Glenrothes
THIS weekend, the entire globe is in a state of fevered expectation. I refer not to the US election, which is surely now Mr Obama's to lose, especially since Colin Powell, a warlord, and myself have endorsed him.

No, I am referring to the Glenrothes by-election, which the smart money says is on course for a Gnat victory but may yet be held by Laybore. For some reason, however, the Gnats and Labour have been encouraging their supporters to place bets, so that the bookies will make them favourites. And? And nothing. Apparently, the Gnats have offered to show people how the system works with a betting masterclass featuring my dear chum Alexei Salmonella, King of the Turf. I jest.

Nevertheless this brought forth a froth from another chum, David McClutchie-At-Straws, erstwhile leader of the Dodos, who said: "This is a huge embarrassment ... The Nationalists have been caught red-handed trying to rig the odds." Whoop-di-do! Meanwhile, The Times, ever authoritative, reported that the Gnats have been urging "arty" activists to place a tenner on the result.

If you see a rush of beret-wearing, paint-spattered, sandal-clad, beardy types hogging the pencils in your local Ladbrokes you'll know who to blame.

Damn and blast double standards
I SHARE the pain of my dear chum, Wonathan Dwoss, who stands to lose £1.5 million because he's a ****-****** ****. Who isn't these days! The Mail gave this juicy bone to its resident rottweiler, Dwichard Dwittlejohn, no lover of the Dweeb, who got immediately to the heart of the matter.

"For instance," he havered, "if it can be proven that the BBC could be effectively privatised, why not refuse collection?" You may wonder what collecting bin bags has to do with making phone calls to Manuel in Fawlty Towers boasting you'd "******" his grand-daughter, a *******. I cannot possibly comment. Just before donning his strait jacket Mr Dwittlejohn added: "Why should we pay for a police service' which spends most of its time playing politics and persecuting motorists, while failing to protect our property or patrol the streets." I'm told the poor fellow is settling in very nicely at the funny farm.

Mr Dwoss's career will recover, I fear. Ditto that of Mr Russell Brand, described by a 137-year-old correspondent in The Hootsmon as looking like "Raggety from Rupert Bear". But what of the legions of others on the Beeb who say **** and **** and **** with impunity? What, in short, of effing Gordon Ramsay and others of his ilk? Why don't we just tell them to get to ****?

Jackson shrugs off latest setback
ERSTWHILE MSP Gordon Jackson QC and Babbity Bowster habitué, who in his Holyrood days was so economical with the time he spent there he was called Crackerjack because, like the much-missed kids' programme, he never appeared before five to five, has had a fall. This - I hasten to add - is not a belated reference to his defeat in lovely Govan by Nicola Sturgeon, Czarina of the Gnats.

Emerging from the High Court a week or so ago Mr Jackson tumbled earthwards, breaking his shoulder in four places, which must be some sort of a record. One sincerely hopes the cause of this painful episode was not a pavement or a discarded chip for there will surely be hell - among other things - to pay. All, however, is not bad news for the, literally, high-flying legal eagle. Though it looks as if he has failed in his recent attempt to become one of three new judges he is the hot favourite to don the scarlet robes when next one of his doddery lordships shuffles off the bench.