THERE'S an age-old double-act whom no Fringe diarist can be without. I refer of course to Scandal and Outrage. And where better to observe this duo's real-life prat-falls, ill-timed custard-pie assaults, and exploding-trouser embarrassments than in Auld Dreichie's many all-night grog shops?

In previous years we've had a comedy promoter chinning a critic at the Assembly Club bar; one comic KO'ing another with a single punch for having insulted his wife at the Gilded Balloon's Late'n'Live bar; another comic stretchered to an Edinburgh hospital with a suspected heart attack after his over-ingestion of alcohol was unwisely followed up by four Ecstasy tablets.

This year, though, nothing. Not a breath of shame, a trace of disgrace. Britain's stand-ups - many fancying themselves as wild-eyed pipers of truth who take no prisoners at dawn's gates - have evidently gone respectable. Forget inspirational hellraisers like Lenny Bruce and John Belushi. Today's comedians are evidently studying to form an innocent cross-talk act called Cocoa, Slippers And Earlytobed.

Apart from one. Thank God for oor ain Ford Kiernan. One of the saving graces of BBC Scotland's Naked Video, Ford's also currently sparkling nightly in The Full Bhuna - Gilded Balloon, 8.15pm, limited tickets still available, hurry, hurry - ably assisted by his regular stage partner, the Herald columnist John Paul Leach.

Ford's been Out There, you see. Spitting Boldly In The Face Of Convention. Living On The Edge. Eating Two Smoked Sausage Suppers One After Another. Confronting Bourgeois Repression. In Dennistoun. And despite the fact that the following tale stems from Ford's youth, he still is (or at least he's still doing the two smoked sausage suppers bit, anyway).

My shock-horror revelation concerns Ford's performing debut at the age of 14. The venue? Not Edinburgh's Fringe, no. Cowie Miners' Welfare? Nope. Ford Kiernan first fretted his stuff before the public at Glasgow's old sheriff court on a charge of being an accessory to the theft of a motor vehicle, the case being presided over by the legendarily sarky and quick-witted Sheriff Irvine Smith.

Looming large among Ford's co-accused was one Kung Fu, so called because his limited wardrobe featured a jumper embroidered with those two words.

Having been the one apprehended at the wheel of the stolen car, a dilapidated Mini estate, Kung Fu was thus called upon to outline the night's events. ``We hud tae push tha effan thing fur three streets,'' Kung Fu explained. Having listened intently, Sheriff Smith repeated Kung Fu's phrase with a puzzled air before asking for details of his means of escape.

``Ah goat a punty o'er a wa','' said Kung Fu. ``A punty? O'er a wa'?'' said the sheriff, looking more bemused. Kung Fu continued his defence, lamenting the Mini's unreliability: ``The real bassterrty it wis we cudny get the c*** startet.'' At this point Sheriff Smith's air of bafflement intensified.

``There's a word there I don't understand . . . perhaps you could explain it to me, young man,'' the sheriff said, as the courtroom held its breath. ``Tell me, what does `startet' mean?''

It is no wonder that Sheriff Smith is now a star turn on the after-dinner speaking circuit. For the record, Ford was let off with a warning as to his future conduct. So if any Fringe informers out there know of any crimes Ford may have committed since - along with any other scandals involving any other stand-ups - they should let me know immediately.

n The six names most frequently tipped for Perrier shortlisting were duly shortlisted yesterday. This year's #3000 Perrier Award, whose winner will be announced on Saturday night, will thus be contested by top bloke Bill Bailey; Montana campfire philosophiser Rich Hall; sketch-show chappies Armstrong and Miller; Dominic Holland, twinkly chronicler of the domestic routine; surreal witterer Dylan Moran, and Al Murray in his guise as the tap-room bigot's tap-room bigot, Pub Landlord.

Yet fear not if you're now unable to get tickets to see this sextet. For there's still excellent comedy about from such un-Perrier'd, unwatered-down fizzers as Sean Lock, Gregg Fleet, the League of Gentlemen, Fred MacAulay, the Nualas, Sir Bernard Chumley, and Simon Day. For them, next year, next year . . .