Brought to book

GLASGOW writer Denise Mina is impressed with the dust jacket for the American edition of her novel, Confidence. She admits the colour scheme makes her “laugh out loud with its glorious audacity”.

The Diary has also taken a quick glance, while wearing heavily-tinted sunglasses to protect our sensitive orbs.

We can report that it is as lurid as a courtesan’s bedroom curtain; as painfully purple as a hack writer’s prose. Gazing at it for too long leads to the sort of headache that arrives after slurping a Cornetto too quickly on a hot summer’s day.

In other words, the Diary demands a copy of this book. We want it so badly that we might even consider reading the thing.

Just the ticket

WE recently revealed that robots have been built to amorously console lonely, lusty chaps. Furthermore, these metallic mademoiselles have Glasgow accents.

Why? Who knows. Though it’s true that nothing is more awash with romantic possibility than the Glesga vernacular screeched at high volume.

With this in mind, our readers are devising phrases for the robots to use.

Lesley McAlpine suggests the roar of the conductress on the old Glasgow trams could be profitably adapted, leading the lurv machines to yelp: “Come oan, get aff.”

Bum deal

A HERALD scribbler recently mentioned a Birmingham statue that brazen Brummies have dubbed "The Floozie in the Jacuzzi". Reader Eric Begbie notes that Scots are equally creative.

He points out that there’s a statue in Clackmannanshire of a naked chap. Officially referred to as "Air Spirit", it has been given a more grounded name by locals.

With his rugged buttocks on display, they call him "The A**e on the Carse".

Footering about

“FIT an alarm clock to your shoe,” suggests reader Gwen Hanson. “It’ll stop your foot from falling asleep.”

Hot and bothered

VISITING a local hostelry, reader Kevin Russell overheard two chaps discussing a visit Johnny Depp and pals made to a British curry house, where they shelled out 50 grand.

“I cannae even afford a portion o’ chips an’ curry sauce,” sighed one chap, mournfully.

Fleeting youth

ON an Edinburgh train, reader Harvey Brown overheard a boy, aged about four, say to his mother: “Mum, do I get to be a baby again?”

Perhaps realising this would be the first disappointment amongst many she would have to impart, mum tenderly replied: “No, love. You only get one shot at being a baby.”

Blending in

“MY fruit and veg business went into liquidation,” sighs reader Jeremy Wood. “So now I sell smoothies.”

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