Shoo-in for next leader?
JEREMY Corbyn has put up for charity auction a signed pair of brown leather lace-up shoes.
Speculation is growing online that Tom Watson will put in a solid bid, given that he has long fancied stepping into his leader’s shoes.

Hitting the nail on the head
SOME people’s names mean they are perfectly suited to their job. Up in Muir of Ord, Ross-shire, Dougie Campbell has spotted a tradesman by the name of Ben Croucher. His occupation? Carpet fitter, of course.
And David Smith was tickled to see that one of the presenters and reporters on BBC Radio 4’s The Food Programme is none other than Dan Saladino.

Zip it, son
THE Diary’s Dad anecdotes, says Andrew Foster in an email from Cambridge, Ontario, brought back an ancient memory of a colleague who was shopping at the old Safeway in Davidson’s Mains, just outside Edinburgh, with his young son.
The man had both arms full in the checkout queue and wasn’t paying attention to his child’s demands – an oversight that prompted junior to grab dad’s trouser zip and yank it down, which was certainly one way to get his attention.

A fishy tale
TERRACING comments, more of. Joe McLaughlin remembers Gil Heron playing for Celtic in the 1950s.
When the team emerged from the tunnel some wags were heard to say, “Here they come – 10 Haddies and a Heron”.

Fine and dandy
OVER at Rangers in the 1960s, George (Dandy) McLean was an attacking inside forward, recalls reader RB, but with the reputation of being a bit hit-and-miss.
As another McLean header sailed over the bar, a neighbour of RB’s on the terraces called out, “Haw McLean, you’ve a heid like a thrup’ny bit!”
RB sent another, better remark that was aimed at Dandy when he once sent a pass astray.
It involved a slighting reference to Lana Turner but unfortunately it’s too off-colour for the genteel tastes of Diary readers.
Or, indeed, The Herald executives who vet this column.

Strangers on a train
THAT awkward moment when you catch a stranger’s eye on a train ...
John Mulholland’s nightly train home usually disgorges most of its passengers at the stop before John’s, leaving just him and a fellow passenger in the carriage.
Normally, they never exchange a word, but the other night, when the other passengers left, John, glancing at the empty seats around him, cleared his throat and murmured “Space”.
“The final frontier,” came a swift if enigmatic reply.
Says John: “Slightly perplexed, I nodded, then the penny dropped – Star Trek!
“Needless  to say, we still don’t speak.”

And finally ...
HAVING a contribution printed in the Diary clearly isn’t quite the achievement that it used to be.
Hugh Walsh was name-checked here yesterday but as he tells us in a follow-up email: “I’m not sure it was appreciated by my dear wife as she suggested I had too much time on my hands and presented me with a paintbrush.”