Oh, not in those words of course, I mean you can hardly expect learned and erudite Herald correspondents to use such a plebeian word as ‘diddy’. (Though, on the other hand, some of them probably hear it all the time.)
It’s quite a strange experience being pilloried and although one or two people seemed to agree with me, the majority of respondents to my last blog managed to insult and affront me in a number of inventive ways labelling me: a clown, a Tory, a Unionist and, worst of all by some considerable margin, an Australian.
One of the rounds of Superscot that Big Jane ruled with her characteristic velvet gloved/iron fist was called "Born Scot or Not", featuring a number of well-known Jocks who might - or then again might not - have actually been born there.
Since the show's contestants were usually studious types – I seem to remember a lot of retired headmasters and librarians – obviously plastic Scots such as Rod Stewart didn’t figure here.
Part of it is the way they always hype it up – previews and trailers long before the Games actually start, portentous, cliché ridden cobblers intoned by that bloke with the impossibly deep voice who used to do the Hollywood Blockbuster voice-overs, promising 'glory, guts and achievement', inevitably accompanied by a soundtrack of Spandau Ballet singing ‘Gold – always believe in your soul’ – whatever that means.
"Pain", he said, "is temporary. Quitting lasts forever".
The first time I read it, I remember being quite taken with the notion that you can conquer physical encumbrance by focussing on your inner mental strengths. Hmm, I thought, that’s right on the money, I might give that a go.
Tell the truth, I was really quite enthusiastic about it; fired-up you might say, inspired almost. Drugs, eh? But maybe I wasn't the only one.
Wimbledon, in particular, has always got right on my thruppennies. Because of the crowd mainly, the Union Jack Waving, laugh-at-anything Henman Hill lot – though I’m sure I’m not alone there. I mean come on, who doesn’t hate them?