Alan Taylor's diary

TO no-one's great surprise - and certainly not mine! - no novels by Scottish writers were named on the Man Booker shortlist. This was to be expected, not least because none was on the longlist. Verily, whatever happened to our literary efflorescence? Ach, well - who cares? At least Rebus lives to fight another day. Radio Four, maintaining the Beeb's high standards, had a bookie on to talk us through the shortlistees. I now look forward to Martin Amis reporting live on the 3.30 from Lingfield.

Much ado has been made of the inclusion on the shortlist of my dear friend, Ian McEwan, pictured above, because his novel On Chesil Beach is - ahem! - short. All poppycock. One could fill this precious space with the titles of great short novels eminently worthy of Bookering. When you have a spare moment, try The Turn Of The Screw, beloved by joiners everywhere, or Heart Of Darkness, which no sparkie's library is complete without. Mr McEwan, of course, as his name suggests, could be Scottish, his father being One of Us. Indeed, the last time our paths collided he expressed a wish to return north to his fatherland, for no-one loves heather more than him. Perhaps he could be included on the Fresh Talent initiative. But back to the Booker. By common consent this has been a poor year for fiction. Ditto the Booker. Chairing the judges is one Howard Davies, late of the Confederation of British Industry, now director of the London School of Economics and Political Science. How this qualifies him to distinguish between Jilly Super and Salman Enchanted Evening I would dearly like to know.

Headache after the honeymoon THE honeymoon, says the Holyrood hack pack, is over. My dear friend Alexei Salmonella, Czar of the Gnats, has been given pelters by the tabloids, including The Sun and The Times, who, if truth be told, never liked him anyway, being fully paid up cronies of Sister Wendy's party. I stayed up past my usual bedtime to watch Newsnicht, on which Gordon Brewer peered through his specs at his guests who, apart from LibDumb Ross Finnie, were very far away and in another place.

Representing the Dodos was ex-leader David McLutchie-at-Straws, several of whose fellow MSPs have declared that the sooner they can get a safe seat at Westminster they'll be on a stagecoach south. To quote my dear friend, Ms Minogue, they should be so lucky. Instead of Sister Wendy, who one presumes was at home reading her weans Jack (McConnell) And The Beanstalk, there was Cathy Jamieson, while the Gnats offered health secretary Nicola Surgeon. Mr McLutchie huffed and puffed and couldn't think of anything the Gnats have left out of the legislative programme that he would like to see in.

In an ideal world, he seemed to be suggesting, we'd all be far better off back in the Stone Age when buffers like him were big cheeses. Mr Finnie was worried about lawyers appearing at hospital bedsides demanding patients don't starve to death or get infected by bugs carried in by manky politicians. Ms Jamieson listed several things Labour could have done in office but hadn't got round to because it was feart what Irn Broon would say. Ms Surgeon, meanwhile, smiled and shook her head in bemusement. As well she might.

Government in all but name IRN Broon says he will not recognise the new name Alexei Salmonella has given himself and his mates, ie the Scottish government. Quite how this will manifest itself is unclear. Imagine Mr Salmonella writes Mr Broon a letter on notepaper headed "Scottish government".

Will Mr Broon read it or will he send it back to Mr Salmonella to think again, or will he just bin it? Apparently Mr Broon has decreed that his ministers and civil servants must use the term "Executive" in all correspondence and meetings with Mr Salmonella's secretaries and civil servants. But what if they - following Mr Salmonella's instructions - take a scunner to being called the Scottish Executive and ignore all letters and references to it? Thus a promising scenario for a comedy series is born. However, I am pleased to report that the Plain English Campaign has offered its backing to Mr Salmonella's "leap" to rename the Executive the Scottish government.

According to the PEC, research has shown that "executive" is a meaningless term. "The Scottish Executive conjures up visions of someone in a suit running a large company," says a man with his head on his shoulders.

Painful passing for Pavarotti SO, arrivederci Luciano Pavarotti. Out of respect to the maestro, I have just played a CD on which Mr Pavarotti sings along with a chap called Bryan Adams. Put your ear to this page and you may hear an echo of it. It's like finding bits of sandpaper in a bowl of the creamiest custard.

Some say that by collaborating with such inferior talents - others included Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras - Mr Pavarotti was inviting mockery. What they do not understand is the capacity Italians have for vulgarity, which is boundless.

As ever when a great man departs the termites ooze out of the woodwork in an attempt to disparage him and encase his feet in clay. In truth, there was much about Mr Pavarotti which fell short of perfection. For example, I am told he had an ego. What a novelty for an opera star!

One termite quoted Maria Callas, a mean bowl of taramasalata. Had she performed with him, she said: "I would have had to take down his pantaloons and give him a good spanking before each performance to remind him who was boss. I would never have put up with the way he treats his leading ladies, on and off the stage. Only a lover should behave so badly." Ms Callas, one presumes, had a lucky escape. God knows how Mr Pavarotti's lovers managed to avoid flattening.

Mr Pavarotti died of pancreatic cancer. I know this because within hours of his death being announced a sensitive PR company sent a press release championing a test kit which "can diagnose acute pancreatitis within five minutes". I'm sure this will be of great comfort to the heavenly tenor's grieving family.