The Diary

entirely a matter for each recipient to decide and far be it for the Diary to make any suggestions. But we think that if anyone is reluctant to participate in this privatised plebiscite, they should make a statement with the means of disposal of the ballot paper. The Diary,

purely as an artistic exercise and in no way a comment on the rights or wrongs of Section 28, proposes to gather as many as

possible of Souter's bits of paper and ask David Mach to fashion them into a model of a Stagecoach bus.

Mr Mach is just the boy for this task, having experience of constructing a submarine out of tyres and a train out of bricks.

The Diary guarantees not to use any ballot papers sent in, in a campaign to vote early and vote often.

One of our favourite characters, the Glasgow clippie, is not dead but is now working on the trains, according to reader Archie White of Jordanhill, Glasgow.

He tells us that when he and three of his friends, in very merry mode indeed, were about to board the last train to Garscadden from Glasgow Queen Street, the lady driver leaned out of her window and announced: ''Here, I don't want any nonsense on my train. Youse boys can go upsterrs.''

Max Hastings, the stuck-up middle-class woofter, was in Glasgow yesterday

making a wee speech about his exploits as a

war correspondent. This great tall streak of an Englishman was promoting his latest book, Going to the Wars.

The above uncomplimentary descriptions are Mr Hastings's own vision of how he is perceived by at least one Scot. Who are we to disagree?

Mr Hastings, whose day job now is to edit the London Evening Standard, is famous for walking into Port Stanley ahead of the British troops at the end of the Falklands conflict. In a refreshing burst of honesty, Max the war correspondent confesses that he is a coward. He recognised his cowardice and fostered it on the playing fields of his English public school where he regularly avoided moments of sporting conflict. He would have run away from the school, Charterhouse, but was too afraid to do so.

Despite editing a virulently anti-Scottish newspaper, Max Hastings professes a love for many aspects of life north of the Border. The sound of the bagpipes, apparently, brings a tear to his e'e. He says his opus moderandi as a war correspondent is borrowed from one Ian Lom Macdonald, a Highland bard who was attached to the Duke of Montrose's Army during various battles in 1645. At one skirmish near Inverlochy, Ian Lom removed himself from the line of fire to observe the fighting from the safety of a nearby rock.

Ian Lom answered criticisms of his actions with the words: ''If I go with thee today and fall in battle, who will sing thy praises and prowess tomorrow?'' A philosophy which stood Mr Hastings in good stead during his time at war.

ADVERT for a Psychic Fare in St Andrews where clairvoyants and mediums (media?) offered their futuroligical services. ''No appointments necessary,'' it says. Of course not.

Michael Kerins has been part of the revival of traditional storytelling in Scotland over the past few years, usually entertaining weans. He has a show opening in the Citizens' Theatre tomorrow but says please don't bring the bairns. The show is called Pants of Fire and Michael says: ''This is not one for your maiden auntie, either. She might not like the idea of me having had sex with a variety of animals.''

It looks as if Michael has been going out with fans of junior footballagain, we suggested. He denied this and told us a tale of congress with a parrot. You'll need to go to the show to hear the punchline, as this remains a family newspaper.

OBAN is to have its very first nightclub, it says here in a press release. It is to be called Cooler. This is uncannily similar to the venue (B&B included) where many Obanites have spent the early hours of the morning after a lively night out.

THE Diary professed ignorance about the point of a piece of Dundee graffiti which read: ''My hovercraft is full of eels.'' Our ignorance appears to know no bounds. Dozens of you

readers have been on to explain it is a phrase from a Monty Python sketch about a dubious Hungarian-English phrasebook.

It is disappointing to know that the Dundee graffitist exhibited no originality. Among the other phrases from the Monty Python sketch which the Clootie City wall-dauber might have used: ''Drop them, Sir Villiam, I cannot wait until lunchtime.'' Or, as a translation for ''I would like a box of matches'', the memorable sentence ''My nipples are exploding with ecstasy''. Another version of this latter phrase offered by a Python fan has John Cleese saying: ''My nipples revolve at the speed of sound.''

Of the many e-mails, that from John McKeown of Wishaw takes the biscuit. ''This phrase comes from episode 25, series two of Monty Python's Flying Circus. It is included in the Dirty Hungarian Phrase Book skit which was first transmitted on December 15, 1970. Do I win a prize?'' No prize, apart from the aforementioned biscuit.

Overheard in the ladies changing room of a South Side of Glasgow leisure club, two women deep in conversation. One says to the other: ''So you have had your baby then.''

Second lady replies: ''Yes, she's 12 weeks old.'' First lady: ''Is that an engagement ring?'' ''No,'' says the other, ''it's an eternity ring. We're doing everything erse for elbow.''