Haggis hell

BURNS Night is nearly upon us. Businessman Jack Davidson from Newton Mearns recalls spending a previous such occasion in a hotel where he was hosting a trade delegation from Romania. The Eastern Europeans had been promised a feast to celebrate the birthday of Scotland’s most famous poet. They were told that they would savour exotic treats such as they had never indulged in before, including haggis and After Eight mints.

As the festivities commenced Jack glanced at one of the Romanians and witnessed a sight that chilled him to the very marrow.

The delegate was smearing a lump of haggis on an After Eight, which he was using like a cracker.

His fellow Romanians nodded in approval and did likewise.

The meal was not a roaring success.

Old but gold

“THE youth of today should respect their grandparents,” decrees reader Jenny Wright, “because they managed to figure out how things work when the only search engine available was a car with a map in it.”

Acting up

IN a recent tale about the performing fraternity the Diary discussed the activities of a certain female thespian. Intrigued reader Joe Knox gets in touch to say: “I would love to ask her how things are doing in Thespia.”

Chit-chat charmer

A DIARY yarn about an exuberant youth reminds reader Margaret Thomson of the occasion when she took her grandson, aged three, to the garden centre for lunch. He was a real chatterbox, and two ladies at an adjoining table were clearly earwigging.

When Margaret got up to leave, one of the ladies said: “What a delightful wee boy. I could take him home.”

When this was reported to the little chap’s mum, she enthusiastically exclaimed: “Did you get her telephone number?”

Rules of attraction

WE continue celebrating arcane golfing terminology. Alan Walker from Carradale informs us that some rather ungallant golfers have shamefully named a shot that is thinned and keeps going a Sally Gunnell, for it is not especially attractive, though it is a good runner.

Bye-bye BoJo

BORIS Johnson continues to cling on to his job, in much the same way as Wile E. Coyote clutches a cliff edge, moments before Roadrunner toddles up to him, mutters, “Meep-meep!” then nudges him into oblivion.

If Boris is bumped, muses reader Gordon Casely, will his send-off be one of those serious and sober Number 10 business events that include jelly, trifle and gallons of chilled Dom Perignon.

Lengthy diatribe

IRRITATED reader Mandy O’Dell says: “I feel like superfluous has too many letters.”