IN a revolutionary frame of mind, reader Moyna Gardner gets in touch to inform us that she’s sick of no-nothing upstarts being given the illustrious title of Prime Minster. We’re not sure Boris would delight in being referred to in such dismissive terms. His alma mater is Eton College after all, a prestigious academic institution where young scholars are taught how to balance top hats on their noble heads, while at the same time berating the butler chappie for insufficient levels of bowing and scraping.

But Moyna is not to be put off by such accomplishments, and continues in her formidably mutinous manner: “I don’t even like it when Prime Minister is shortened to PM,” she sniffs. “A more suitable label would be WC… for Worthless Chancer.”


THE Diary is thrilled that local screenwriter Krysty Wilson-Cairns has been nominated for an Oscar for her work on First World War epic, 1917.

With her star on the rise, we’re hoping to pitch Krysty a few ideas with a distinctively tartan flavour that she can pursue as her next project. For instance, what about a reboot of Gone With The Wind? Only this time round it would focus on an actual wind, namely the saucy wee storm that has been battering Scotland all week.

We’ve even come up with an updated title to reflect the majesty of our blockbuster concept. Ladeez and gents, we give you… Jeezo! It’s Pure Dead Blustery Out, Intit But?

On health grounds

WE continue to be bombarded with examples of fumbled phrases, where language is garbled and comes out as garbage. Reader Gordon Fisher recalls the time a good friend of his was taken into hospital suffering from kidney problems. When Gordon asked his pal’s mother how the chap was faring, she replied: "Not good. He had to get one of those cafetieres fitted."

Gordon reports that he hasn’t really enjoyed his morning cup of Java since.

Bag’s a drag

SCOT squad actor Stuart McPherson is finding kitchen duties calamitous. “I could tear open freezer food bags at any part of the bag,” he grumbles, “And yet every single time, I rip the bit with the cooking instructions on it.”

Gaggle of goths

CAN this really be true? A bloke with a rich knowledge of youth culture in Scotland’s central belt informs us that in Stirling a group of Goths have adopted as their hangout a patch outside the local Argos. “They’re known collectively as the Argoths,” reveals our man in the know.

Jeepers streakers

CREEPY joke time. Reader Bob Dorsey tells us that he scared the postman recently by coming to the door naked. “I don’t know what scared him the most,” says Bob. “The fact that I was naked, or that I knew where he lived.”

Read more: The Queen of Craigmillar, 1977