The fame game

DAVID Cowan is an experienced BBC Scotland reporter, which sounds like a very glamorous job, involving all sorts of shimmering showbiz shenanigans. And, indeed, that turns out to be the case, for the highfalutin hack boasts in a most haughty manner: “My wife has just told me she went to school with John Craven’s nephew. Does anyone else have such a close connection to fame?”

Weekday woes

A FEW years ago Jack Thompson from Stirling owned his own hairdressers. He employed a young trainee who was always in a sullen, sulky mood. The exasperated business owner eventually decided to ask the young lady what was the matter.

“It’s a total nightmare having to be back in work after the weekend,” she grumbled. “And the first four or five days are always the worst.”

Twizzlers fizzle out

WHEN France closed its borders to the UK, London-based Scottish comedian Leo Kearse was mostly concerned about how our Gallic neighbours would cope if they had to do without Britain’s scrumptious delicacies in their supermarkets. With a concerned sigh, he inquired: “Are families in France going to have Christmas without Scotch eggs, Fray Bentos pies, Turkey Twizzlers and beans on toast?”

Royal rage

WHAT will the Queen’s Christmas Message be this year, wonders Jenny Carter. “A 10-second caterwaul from Her Majesty, while she repeatedly bangs her tiara on her writing table, would be a suitably pithy way of summing up another delightful year for the UK,” says our reader.

Lean tales

WE continue with our ferociously unfestive descriptions of thin folk. Gordon Wright tells us that an extremely slim young lady once began working in his office.

One of the older employees observed her over his specs for a few seconds before remarking: “Ah've seen mair meat on a railway sandwich.”

Metres matter

AN unlikely story from reader Richard David who assures us that he watched a panto last night where the crowd screamed: “He’s two metres behind you!”

Toothy trouble

THE Diary is short on resolutions this year, though we do have a New Year prediction from Michael Munro from Cumbernauld, who rubs his temples, gazes into his crystal ball and says in a suitably mystical voice: “Dental charges are bound to go up… brace yourselves.”


TEARING open the Christmas crackers early this year to get his eager mitts on the daft gags inside, reader Jeremy Brown found this question to tickle us with: “What do you call a chicken in a shell suit?”

The answer is, of course… an egg.