MY old amigo, Mel Brooks, maker of such masterpieces as Blazing Saddles and The Producer, is in London where, aged 88, he is starring in his first solo show.

He is one of the few movie stars I have ever interviewed. It took place over lunch and it was difficult to strike up a rapport with Mr Brooks, not least because he flitted from table to table, where colleagues from the Bonnyrigg Sentinel and the Yarrow Muse asked him such searching questions as, "What do you like to eat?" and "Where do you go on holiday?"

During a break in proceedings I followed Mr Brooks to the gents, which is not, I hasten to add, something I make a habit of. He entered a cubicle where, he said, he was happy to sit for as long as I wanted to keep lobbing questions at him. It was, I feel confident in saying, a memorable experience for both of us but not one either of us would necessarily rush to repeat.

DAVE Mackay is no more. I have a memory, probably misplaced, of seeing him play at Tynecastle for Hearts in the late 1950s. Pigeon-chested, he could throw a sodden, heavy leather ball from the touchline into the box as if he were launching a javelin. He was a tough tackler and a

sweet passer, a combination of Roy Keane and Franz Beckenbauer. Before a game,

to intimidate the opposition, he'd kick a ball high into the air then control it

with his instep. As I never cease to remind folk, I once encountered him in

Staggs - to Musselburgh sophisticates what the Garrick is to luvvies - and offered him a drink, which he was happy to accept. He asked for a white wine spritzer. We talked, inevitably, about the famous photograph of him and Billy Bremner, but not, out of compassion, about the 1961 Scotland-England game when, with the likes of Denis Law, Eric Caldow, Billy McNeill, Ian St John and Dave in our team, we were annihilated 9-3.

"What was it like to play in that?" he was once asked. "Play?" said Dave. "I didn't play - I was there but I didn't play! We were terrible. Everything went wrong but it was the keeper who got the blame. He emigrated to Australia - he had to! Denis Law saw him a few years ago and he asked, 'Is it safe to come home now?' Frank Haffey was his name - 'What's the time?' 'Nine past Haffey!' He had a bad game, but so did everybody else."

An email arrives, seemingly from Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, from whom it is always a delight to hear. Because of an administrative error, I can expect a refund of several thousand quid. Overcoming the natural scepticism and cynicism which has made me a multi-award winning

hack, I click on the words "refund me now", fully expecting the dosh to pour out of my computer as it would a fruit machine. Instead, I am informed that this is not a kosher message from HMRC but a "phishing site", which, whatever it means, is not easy to say, particularly if you've forgotten to put your teeth in.

"Phishing", which - according to Chambers - is an altered form of "fishing", involves sending dodgy emails to the likes of me in the hope that I'll divulge information which will lead to the emptying of my bottomless bank account. Phish off!

A dedicated member of the militant wing of the Anent Preservation Society alerts me to the proscription of another useful word. I refer to "panjandrum" which is in desperate danger of extinction. My dear friend used it in a letter to a newspaper where, to his horror, it was replaced by the peelie-wally alternative, "official". And they say we don't live in a police state! It can only be a matter of time before poor peelie-wally bites the dust. Not for the first time, words fail me.

ALL Scotia's mutts must be microchipped. How I cheered when I read the news, assuming, stupidly, that it might have something to do with addressing the issue of wild toileting. Alas, I learn that the real reason for the move is to help find lost dogs and retrieve strays.

Yet again, I find cause to regret my decision not to stand at the forthcoming general election despite having had offers from all parts of the political spectrum to do so. My sole condition - to which no-one would agree - was that if elected I would immediately be made leader or, as I would prefer, emperor, and thus be able to implement whatever policies I had a bee in my bunnet about.

Top of the list, of course, was the canine problem. Not only would I microchip the dogs but I would also microchip their owners, if only just to spook them. I like the idea, too, which I mentioned here a wee while ago, of compiling a DNA register of all mutts so their droppings can be traced to the dropper. I'm also keen to introduce a canine court where abusers - ie the owners - would be named, shamed and pelted with - well, I'll leave that up to your imagination. I offer all this gratis to Creepy Jim Moiphy, who needs all the help he can get.

Malcolm Rifkind, I'm told, was never the same after he lost his Edinburgh Pentlands seat in 1997.

One friend, who must remain anonymous lest he become persona non grata in Dodoland, says the knight is guilty of "castle creep", ie he has ambitions above his station, with which his meagre £67,000 base income as an EmPee cannot hope to cope.

Hence the allegations that he appeared ready to tout his services to a fictitious Chinese company for a measly £5,000 a day, which is hardly enough to cover the massacre of a few peasants - sorry, pheasants - at Sandringham.