SHOCKINGLY, former cop Tracey Ormsby, 36, has been universally ridiculed for suing her former employer, Strathclyde Police, for a piddling £1.5 million because she was struck by a pineapple while policing a demo. Ms Ormsby says she was obliged to "stand and smile" while she and colleagues were pelted with eggs, fruit and potatoes.

Consequently, she says she has suffered serious psychological injuries, post-traumatic stress, anxiety and panic disorder with agoraphobia. She is also, apparently, now "phobic" about the police. Several thoughts spring to mind, chief of which is the discerningly healthy quality of the objects now hurled by protesters. Who says Glaswegians are addicted to deep-fried Coco Pops?

Then again the aforementioned protesters were demonstrating against the closure of Govanhill swimming baths, one of the few places in the city dedicated to cleanliness and wellbeing. Needless to say, despite the pineapple blitz the baths closed.

The same is true elsewhere. Contrary to councils' pious claptrap, swimming baths are increasingly endangered. In Embra, the hugely popular Infirmary Street baths closed despite the fact that the council said it would be refurbished. The same fate, it seems, could befall Glenogle baths in trendy Stockbridge. One wishes all the best to those determined to keep it open and looks forward to seeing those trying to close the baths pelted with mangoes, lychees and pomegranates. The truth is out but Frankie's in

WORRYING news! Linda Fabbydo, Meenister for Culture and Etcetera, appears to know what she's talking about, which is not something that could be said of many of her predecessors. Ms Fabbydo recently gave an interview to The Herald in which she promised to maintain the "arm's length" priniciple between government and the arts cooncil. "You cannot censor creativity," she chirruped. Hip-hip-replacement!

Asked what her taste in music was, she confessed to being addicted to Frank Sinatra, whose rendition of Nice N' Easy is currently scheduled to be played when my clogs are popped. Ms Fabbydo is also apparently a great reader, my dear amigo Philip Roth being her favourite author. Even better, she is no fan of detective novels, the most overhyped literary genre. Quite why it's so popular mystifies moi. Then again, so are The Sun and Noel Edmonds. Off the top of my head I can't recall a detective novel that was truly novel since Patricia Highsmith and Georges Simenon departed. Please feel free to point out that I am talking through a hole in my heid.

WERE I the suspicious sort I might accuse Tony Bliar, a lame ducky, of trying to queer Irn Broon's pitch by striking a secret deal with Colonel Gaddaffodil which could/perhaps/might/possibly lead to the sole chap jailed for the Lockerbie bombing being sent back to Libya to serve out his 27-year sentence in the local Hilton. This played straight in the mitts of my dear comrade, Alexei Salmonella, who immediately wrote to Mr Bliar expressing his "concern" that he and his mates at Holyrood had not be consulted. Given that up until now the Pee-Em hasn't phoned or written to him, Mr Salmonella wasn't holding his breath.

Nor will he. Instead he will make as much hay as he can out of a few straws, thus emphasising the gulf between up here and doon there.

Mr Broon, meanwhile, must sit and simmer, aware that things in his backyard are getting out of hand but unable to do anything about it. It fell, therefore, to Kirsty Wark, Donald Dour's fragrant chum, to fight the Labour corner on Newsnight. Offering a passable impression of a windmill, La Wark flailed daftly but was unable to lay a paw on Mr Salmonella, who looks increasing like my spiritual mentor, Buddha. Later, Mr Salmonella reflected on a job well done. "I don't think I'll be getting an invitation to her holiday home," he remarked. But - as we disclose elsewhere in this throbbing organ - La Wark did email and say sorry. Mr Bliar please note.

YESTERDAY the thickest constituency in the country was to have been honoured by the presence of the world's zippiest jockey. I refer, of course, to mine ain Edinburgh East and Musselburgh and Frankie Dettori, who last weekend rode the winners of the English and French derbies. Alas, Mr Dettori got a better gig at Goodwood, to the chagrin of northern racegoers.

Had he turned up it would have been interesting to ask him if he was aware of the controversy over the Honest Toun's glorious course. Some - bookies, councillors, liggers, tumshies - want to transform the verdant acres into a floodlit all-weather track, thus hugely increasing the number of meetings a year. Others - normal human beings, birdwatchers, dog walkers, golfers, me - want things to remain as they are.

At the recent election this was a hot issue, resulting in a violent swing from Labour to the Gnats, leading to Kenny MacAskill becoming an MSP and the dumping of the Labour-controlled council. It was as if Kim Il Sung had been replaced by Maggie Thatcher.

It may be stretching credulity somewhat, but had not the testy burghers of Musselburgh and environs not voted with their feet the Gnats might not have got their one-seat majority over Labour. In short, it was those punters who were agin the all-weather track wot won it, which one trusts will be acknowledged when the historians get to work.

Meanwhile it is worth reminding my dear amigo, Alexei Salmonella, that this is why he is First Meenister. Mr Salmonella, you may recall, is a bit of a punter. Indeed, I once backed his tips and, after a nailbiting couple of hours, was a couple of bob better off which - as he pointed out - was at least better than the then rate of inflation.

Extensive research reveals that Mr Salmonella was a supporter of the all-weather track, a fact not used by Mr MacAskill's Labour opponent. Had it been, who knows what the outcome of the election would have been. Not for the first time, though, Musselburgh can fairly lay claim to being the centre of the intelligent universe. The hidden perks of becoming presiding officer

I'm sure Alex Fergusson, below, the Old Etonian who is the current presiding officer, will do a perfectly decent job. However, one is missing his predecessor, Giorgio Reid, who was here one minute and gorn the next. If anyone sees him, please tell him I'd like a word with him.

Thanks to the wonder that is Freedom of Information, I can now exclusively reveal a few of the many fabulous gifts Giorgio received while PO. From one Father Lamb, for instance, he got a DVD entitled The Gates Of St Patrick, which I'm sure he has spent many happy hours watching.

Books appear to be especially favoured as gifts by foreign dignitaries visiting this blasted heath.

Among those no doubt awaiting perusal on Mr Reid's bedside table are The Parliament Of Finland (in hardback), something untranslated from Estonia, and Vlaanderen, a Flemish bestseller. Sundry other gifts include a CD titled Toscana La Musica, a wooden carved bison and a plate from Ukraine with a picture of its parliament.

If any of these lovely items have found their way into the Reid household, Mrs Giorgio now knows from whence they came.