SCOURING my shelves for a truant tome I come across The Unspeakable Scot by one TWH Crosland, published in 1902.

"Who he?" you may well ask. As well might I. Flipping through its pages I encounter sundry comments pencilled in margins, such as "this is the sore bit", "I should say so", "very likely" and "can that be true?". All of which remind me of Flann O'Brien. In his column in the Irish Times he invented the Book-Handling Service where, for a wee fee, someone would go through your books and rough them up a bit to make it look as if you'd read them, or scribble remarks in the margins such as those on my copy of The Unspeakable Scot.

What is particularly appealing about Mr Crosland is his visceral dislike of us Scots, which he makes no attempt to disguise. Having had the "misfortune" to have been born on the day Burns popped off, he burns with contempt for anyone with tartan blood. He is especially disgusted with "Scotch" journalists, which suggests he may have been an English one. Journalism suits the Scotch, he opines, as it is a haven for the mediocre and a profession "into which you can crawl without inquiry as to your qualifications". To which one can only add, what qualifications would they be?

NICK Clog and the LibDumbs have been in Glesca, on which they have made as much of an impact as the World Congress of Acupuncturists. I do hope you caught sight of a couple, for the chances of seeing them again are slim. There may be more pandas in Embra Zoo than there are Tory EmPees in Scotia but, come next year's election, there may be fewer LibDumb ones than dodos in a museum.

THE Groaniad has asked its brainy readers to nominate who they think should win the Nobel Prize for Literature. One suggests Kevin Pieterson, a cricketer, another Nadine Dorries, the EmPee best known for her appearance on I'm A Celebrity, where, after a mere minute in a coffin covered in creepy-crawlies, she begged to be released. Both, I concede, would make admirable laureates. Daily one is sent books that come garlanded with praise which, after perusing the first page, one hurls against a wall. Today's is what is described as "a riveting contribution to the burgeoning field of climate fiction" or "cli-fi for short". I shall spare its author's blushes by not naming it or him. Suffice it to say that one reader's riveting is another's tripe. It opens with a passage which I defy anyone to trump: "Lying on his alarm clock, Boy convinced himself that he was 'on time', and could linger with the auburn girl in his dream. As usual, he was saving her, this time from a Terrifficollosus spider. He shot a two-stage flaming arrow into one of its slick red eyes. Watched it burn through the horrid head. The monster ignited." Thank goodness for that.

ROY Keane, erstwhile of Man U, does not mince his words, many of which are mince. In part two of his autobiography, Ich Bin Ein Heidbanger, the former footballer recalls his acrimonious departure from the club of which he was captain. So incensed was he to have been shown the door by Shir Alex Ferguson that Keane decided not to return the company car, which he then hung on to for three months. "I drove some f****** miles in that car," he writes in his book. "Every little victory is vital." Methinks he has some way to go, anger management-wise.

TALKING of books and prizes, the Saltire has announced its very long longlist, which is full of books only someone interested in Terrifficollosus spiders would want to read. One offering is by renaissance woman Kirsty Wark, the latest television person to commit a crime against fiction. For inexplicable reasons, however, Andrew Marr is conspicuous by his absence. His debut novel, Head Of State, which has been judged "rather feeble", "highly improbable" and "a tsunami of preposterous tosh", would appear to be just what appeals to the space cadets on the Saltire panel.

The publisher of one of the books shortlisted has emailed to ask why I have not reviewed it. Since he had neglected to send it, I said this would be difficult. The book duly arrived. It's called The Monster's Wife and its author is Kate Horsley who, we're told, has a PhD from Harvard and lives in Manchester with her "artist partner, a ghost called Ron and a growing museum of curiosities". Why she qualifies as a candidate for "Scottish First Book of the Year" I know not, though her novel is set in Orkney. Give her the dosh, then!

WHERE am I? Is this Poundland, Poundwise, Poundstretcher or Pound Of Flesh? It's hard to tell, they all look alike. I'm looking for the Post Office, which recently moved from Poundland to Pound Of Flesh. Or was it from Poundstretcher to Poundwise? As I wander round shelves bulging with bricks of Toblerone and plastic scourers, none of which stretches a pound to breaking point, I see nothing that signals the presence of a post office. I ask a fellow customer, an elderly dame who looks as lost as that woman who has been found after 17 days in the Australian bush. "I dinnae ken, son," she says, adding: "Have you tried Poundland or Poundwise?" From this I deduce that I must be either in Pound Of Flesh or Poundstretcher, which leaves just two pound emporia to explore. Pound Of Flesh, it transpires, does not exist, being a figment of my fertile imagination. So Poundstretcher it must be, and here it is, tucked at the back of the Harrods of pound shops, a sorry excuse for a post office. I hand over my parcel and am charged £2.80 to send it second class. "But I thought everything here costs no more than a pound," I say, semi-seriously. I am rewarded with a Nobel-winning glare.